Mubû Tadûl Farâkhaz
by Aislin30a
Summary: Smaug never attacked. Erebor never fell. The company never formed. But Bilbo Baggins is going on an adventure, damn it, because despite being very respectable indeed he can't help but do the right thing when faced with an orphaned dwobbit child. A hobbit is coming to the Lonely Mountain, the dwarves will just have to deal with it.
1. Midsummer & Midwinter

Rating: T for now

Pairings: Bilbo/Thorin, Dwalin/Ori and Nori/Bofur are the main pairings but there will be other side pairings such as Gloin and his canonical wife.

Characters: Everyone you've heard of and some you haven't.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, the characters, or any related works. I'm doing this for fun not profit.

* * *

**Midsummer & Midwinter**

* * *

Bilbo Baggins is a young faunt at his grandfather's feet the first time he sees a dwarf.

It's a warm evening near midsummer, too early for fireworks as of yet, but with the wizard puttering around his cart the promise of great bursting flowers and whirling wizzpops hangs heavy in the air. Too heavy, in fact, for young Bilbo to sit still. He's abandoned the puppet show and even the tables piled high with birthday fair to run in the tall grass. Swinging his wooden sword in great arks, he beheads any dandelion within his short reach.

Up a small rise he runs, chasing nameless shadows in his mind, a great cape fitting enough for any hero (dark, slick leather like his mother's) trailing in his wake, his sword raised high. It flashes in the dying light, gleams as he brings it down on his enemy, crowing in triumph as -

"Steady on there, my lad!"

Bilbo squeaks and trips over his own feet as he turns, landing amongst the daisies. His grandfather smiles down at him over the curve of his pipe, eyes twinkling through the haze of sweet smoke.

"It seems Master Boffin's plays are not exciting enough to keep your attention, eh?" The Old Took chuckles, pulling Bilbo up by his suspenders. "Just like your mother, you are, hardly a Baggins at all!"

Bilbo grins up at the old hobbit, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "I want to see fireworks, Grandpapa!"

"Certainly, my lad," His grandfather replies, "Just as soon as the last of the light has gone." He takes a long puff on his pipe and, with great care, blows a smoke ring as large as Bilbo's head and sends it gliding out towards the setting sun.

Bilbo turns to race off after it when he sees them – dark shapes along the East Road heading west toward Waymoot. There are more than a dozen of them, taller than any hobbit Bilbo has ever seen and here and there along their line comes the occasional glint of metal.

"_Dwarves_, huh!" He hears his grandfather mutter darkly behind him. Bilbo trembles in delight. Dwarves! Dressed in shiny armor with great beards and dark cloaks, just like in his mother's stories. He stands on tiptoe in the hopes of getting a better look and thinks he can see, just maybe, the hint of an ax slung across a broad back.

"Where are they going, Grandpapa?"

"The Blue Mountains most likely," the Old Took answers, his eyes narrow as he watches the dwarves walk on, tapping his pipe stem against his teeth, "Probably camp outside the fields... head north through Nobottle. Leave the Farthing day after next, hrmmm..."

"Why are they going there?" Bilbo asks, calling his grandfather's attention back where it should be, on himself.

"They've got a mining settlement there, haven't they?" the Old Took says, scratching at his chin as he thinks. "Ought to send young Isengar to get word from the Bounders... yes, indeed. Can't have Outsiders lollygagging in our Shire, no."

Bilbo stares after the dwarves as they continue their march westward. He greatly wants to see them up close, nearly as much as he wants to see the elves to the east, wants to see if they really have such thick hair on their faces as his mother says. He turns to his grandfather and sets his feet.

"We should invite them to your birthday party, Grandpapa!"

"Not likely, my lad!" Old Took scoffs, but his expression softens at Bilbo's pout. "Besides, I haven't got any gifts for them. You wouldn't want to make the Thain of the _whole _Shire look like a bad host, would you?" He chuckles as Bilbo shakes his head vigorously. "Good, now go off and bother our wizard about those firecrackers. Good lad."

Bilbo skips and leaps down the hill towards the towering figure in his pointed hat and leaves his grandfather to watch after the diminishing figures of the dwarves.

Bloody nuisance, the Thain thinks as the group turns a corner and disappears into the treeline. He ought to send some stonemasons up past the North Farthing, help get the old Arnor roadways up to snuff. It would be worth the expense, he reasons, if only to keep so many dwarves from crossing the Shire on their way back and forth.

The Old Took nods to himself and puffs on his pipe as the first of the fireworks light up the sky.

* * *

.

* * *

A decade on and the ancient thoroughfares of Arnor have greatly improved. The dwarven caravans of iron and copper and coal travel north of the Shire now and the dwarves have all but disappeared from its gentle hills. The Thain is satisfied with this, even when the Bounders bring word that their neighbors have dug up all their hard work to relay the cobbles themselves. Bloody dwarves.

The winter hits hard and fast.

Frost paints every window, turns every herb and flower in their gardens hard and brittle. The Water freezes over and the snow falls and falls. The sheriffs organize teams to dig families out of their smials and the Old Took sends word to all the great hobbit clans to portion out their larders and not to stint. Four meals a day is a necessary hardship. There's no telling how long the biting cold will last.

When the Horn-call of Buckland sounds the air is so crisp and clear that the echoes reach as far as Tuckborough.

The Thain takes up a rusty old sword, with an edge so dull that his grandchildren have played with it without fear of injury, sends his younger sons to board up the windows and doors, sends his daughters to chop up furniture for firewood. His dear wife cries quiet tears as she herds the fauntlings down to the root cellar. Belladona and her sweet little Bilbo are still in Hobbiton and she has no way of knowing if they are safe.

They cut back to three meals a day.

"Perhaps the dwarves will come," his wife murmurs in the dark that night as he runs his fingers through her silver curls. "They're a fighting folk."

"What, and leave me with nothing to do?" he huffs, puffing up his chest and putting on airs, "I'm the Thain you know, master of the Hobbitry-at-arms! See, I've even got the sword."

"That sword," Adamanta begins, speaking sternly as though admonishing a faunt caught with a fist full of sweets before supper, "hasn't been sharped, much less used, since the battle of Greenfields – _long_ before either of us was born."

"Yes, well, blunt force you see. I've always been better with clubs anyway..." He trails off as he feels her smile against his shoulder and lets out his breath. He is so very tired, but for her sake he will stay up and talk, if only to keep her smiling.

"We don't know what's out there." Adamanta whispers as their family sleeps around them.

"I suspect we will by morning." He replies and holds her tight.

"Perhaps they will come."

"Perhaps."

They do not come. Even as the days turn to weeks and the white wolves begin to dig down, down through the snow and sod above the ceiling – they do not come.

* * *

.


	2. The Fractured Bezel

The ruling family of Erebor throw a party.

Note: I forgot to mention in the first chapter: this story is beta'd by the wonderful Re_White.

* * *

**The Fractured Bezel**

* * *

Dis strides down the gallery with all the confidence of her station. She hardly spares a glance for the towering statues which flank her on either side, their hardened forms and hollow eyes as familiar to her as each intricate drape and fold of her own gown and just as unheeded. The polished granite echoes with the sharp click of her delicately forged heels, the muted beat of her shomakhâlinh's leather boots a familiar undertone as they make their way towards the stately doors of the Receiving Hall.

The guards on duty, dressed in azure velvet and ruby-gold plated armor, draw to formal attention as she approaches, fists folded together above their breastplates. Dis slows to a stop just in front of them. From behind the doors comes the muted rumble of a thousand voices entombed in stone.

"Emùlhekhizu." They speak in perfect unison, eyes straight ahead.

"On your word, my Lady." Glhîn recites from just behind her shoulder. There is a smirk in her tone, as there so often is.

"It is my pleasure to enter." She replies, as etiquette dictates. Glhîn strides around her, chain-mail and leather jerkin gleaming in the lanterns. Her garments and armor are simple and well crafted, made for daily use and well broken in. Ever practical, the gold beads adorning her auburn beard and thick braid are Glhîn's only concession to ceremony.

With a nod from her shomakhâlinh, two of the guards march inwards taking hold of the massive handles carved into the doors. Perfectly balanced and well oiled, they swing outwards effortlessly. The rumble of voices rises and fractures into a hundred sounds, conversations and laughter, the clink of mugs of ale and cutlery on plates, a harmony of harps, krumhorns, vielles and drums resonates, spilling like a great wave into the gallery. Glhîn enters ahead of Dis, bending down to whisper in the ear of the Èzùkhos Mednemahagrîfâl. He nods as Glhîn stands to the side, hands resting on her belt, and raises a horn studded with gems to his wizened lips. A high, piercing note rises above the clamor and a momentary lull in conversation follows as the music tapers off.

"Her royal highness, the princess Dis, daughter of Thráin, son of Thrór, King under the Mountain!" He intones, loud and surprisingly deep for his small stature. Dis is greeted with applause as she enters, chin held high, a magnanimous smile plastered to her face as she raises her hand in acknowledgment.

"Onward and to battle." Her lips hardly move as she speaks, a bare murmur for her loyal guard's ears alone.

Glhîn smirks and follows her into the fray.

The music starts up again and Dis moves in time with it, steps light as she makes her way through the crowd. Here she returns a greeting, voices nearly lost in the bustle of the party, turns and slips by; here she tips her head in a gracious nod to the wife of a council member. Dwarrows in jeweled velvets and brocade, armor polished, hair and beards finely braided and woven with gems and gold whirl and part around her. Blazing chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling setting their adornments aglow. Rising above the heads of her people are the occasional men and women of Dale, officials and nobility come to pay their respects and partake in fine dwarvish ale. In a far corner Dis can just make out a meager contingent of Mirkwood elves, pale hair shining like curtains of silk in the candlelight.

"Keep an eye out for Dwalin's mohawk, would you?" Dis says, jeweled rings flashing as she brings her hand up to angle her voice more readily towards her guard.

"Aye, my Lady." Glhîn replies, eyes never ceasing in their survey of the room.

"I'd like a quick word with my brother," She continues, slipping past a cluster of courtly 'dams, "he always gets so irksome when surrounded by duplicitous jubilation-"

"My Lady Dis!"

Dis freezes her expression into a smile of pleasant surprise and turns. "Lord Náli, you look quite dashing this evening."

Náli preens, running his fingers along the cut of his coat, hand tilted so that the many rubies and diamonds set in oversized rings twinkle and flash. Beneath his beard – waxed so heavily that each bended plait and gathered lock shines slick like oiled leather – his lips quirk into a smile so full of conceit it makes her teeth itch to look at him.

"I wanted to congratulate you on young Kili's coming of age," He says, overly loud and holds his hand out, open in invitation. Dis rests the very tips of her fingers on his palm. Náli's hand curls around hers as he raises it and bends his head, kissing just above her first knuckle. His beard feels just as greasy as it looks.

"My thanks to you, my Lord." She says when he releases her hand, just a moment later than is proper. "Though it was no easy task."

"Ah, well, the flights and fancies of Nudûy," Náli remarks, waving a dismissive hand, "They will do as they will."

"Yes." Dis replies, voice flat and smile just on the polite side of brittle. "So it seems."

"My Lady," Glhîn intercedes, bowing to them both. "If I might direct you onward, your attention is desired elsewhere."

Náli glances briefly at the guard, taking in her soft leathers, iron greaves and scuffed boots. His lips pinch up to one side, the barest hint of a sneer.

"Of course!" Dis says and gives Náli the merest tip of her head. "If you'll excuse me, my Lord, duty calls. I'll be sure to convey your best wishes to my husband." The dismissal is clear and he turns away as Dis glides off in the direction of Glhîn's outstretched arm.

"What an odious fellow," She remarks, allowing herself a small shudder as she wipes her knuckles on her sash.

Glhîn chuckles beside her, keeping pace without effort. "He's a elf-skinned lickspittle, an' no mistake."

Dis nods and trades greetings with a passing man of Dale. "I was most impressed with your little speech. You almost passed for civilized."

"_Aay_, don' remind me." She winces, tugging at a strand of her beard, hanging loose from the braid that curls back into her hair, "I sounded a right fopdoodle."

The dance continues, noble to councilman to chief guildsman and round again. Dis makes her way slowly towards the refreshments table, throat parched and wishing for a small glass of barleywine. Just ahead of her the crowd shifts the barest fraction, allowing her an unobstructed view of plates piled high with savory meat pies, fruit tarts and strudel. Their flaky crusts are nearly as golden as the head of hair which ducks quickly around a column and out of sight. The crowd closes in again.

"What _are_ you up to?" She murmurs as she comes to a sudden stop, twisting the gold band around her thumb as she thinks.

"Beg your pardon, my Lady?" the Lady Yurla asks, taken aback.

"Oh goodness, forgive me, Agùlabâlinh Yurla, I was thinking aloud." Dis laughs, giving the counselor a light pat on the arm, as though sharing a private joke. "Tell me, how is your granddaughter? Doing better I hope?"

"Yes, very much so." Yurla blinks, a small, reserved smile gracing her face. "Thank you for asking after her."

A muted flash catches Dis' eye. On a silver twist of Yurla's hair rests a simple gold bead. Unlike the others scattered among her tresses, it is polished smooth, a roughly etched love-knot its only decoration. Dis hazards a guess and takes a chance. "How could I not, when she is so obviously dear to you?" She says, indicating the bead. Yurla's eyes follow the motion and when she looks back up her face opens like a geode hewn down the center, wrinkles deepening in her familial pride. "Such promising craftsmanship. But I mustn't keep you all to myself, enjoy the party, my Lady."

"Certainly, your Highness." Yurla responds, inclining her head a fraction more than etiquette would require. "And a happy birthday to the young prince."

"My thanks." Dis nods and moves off into the crowd. Her stride is smooth and sure, just fast enough to deter conversation but not so swift as to seem a deliberate avoidance. Her eyes dart from face to face and back along the refreshments and decorations.

"He's off behind tha' carving o' Durin." Glhîn remarks.

"Oh good, you spotted him too." Dis sighs and shakes her head. "What am I saying, _of course_ you did. Right. Steel Tong maneuver, I'll go left, you go right.

They split ways, circling around the great sculpture. Carved from a single block of ice drug down from the very summit of the Lonely Mountain on the king's orders, it's taller than the very largest of the men of Dale and big enough around to hide a mining cart with ease. Or one conniving prince. Dis slows her pace as she comes around the back, walking on the balls of her feet to keep her heels from giving her away. She puts herself in line with a tall woman in sapphire silks, her own dress blending with the back of the woman's robes.

Her son stands at the sculpture's base, carefully examining something in his hand, golden locks falling around his handsome face. They don't obscure his grin as he stashes the thing away, folded into an inner pocket. He turns away from her, his stride confident and jaunty as he walks, nearly colliding with Glhîn as she appears like a sudden slide of rock in the deep tunnels of the mines.

Dis darts forward.

"Glhîn!" Fili yelps, jumping back from the grinning guard. "What are you doing back here? Where's -"

"Hello, my _darling_ child." Dis says, voice ringing like silver bells, just before Fili stumbles back into her. "my _precious_ mudùmel.

"Amad!" Fili squeaks as he whirls to face her. "How wonderful to see you!"

"Oh, I'm sure," Dis smiles ever so sweetly. She brings one hand up to straighten her son's wayward braids, takes one between her fingers and twirls it this way and that, admiring the play of pale, icy light on its strands. "Tell me Inùdoyuh, what are you plotting?"

"Nothing!" Is his immediate reply, face setting quickly into a picture of innocence.

"Really..." She pauses, gives him a considering look. His fingers twitch at his side, twice before he notices and stills. "Here you are, wandering seemingly aimlessly while your dear brother is off somewhere by himself -"

"To the right o' the center dais." Glhîn supplies, looking off in an entirely different direction all together. Dis peeks under a frozen axehead and sniffs, giving her son a knowing look.

"Not alone it seems, but surrounded by admirers and well wishers," She corrects herself, tipping her head and narrowing her eyes. Fili manages to hold her gaze for a few moments before looking away. "He does so enjoy being the center of attention, but we both know how he _hates_ being pandered to," Dis turns and begins to circle her son, pretending to straighten his furs, confident he won't try to slip away, "it confuses him so. Why, then, would you leave him in their clutches, all alone?"

"I'm sure I don't understand, Amad." Fili answers in his best diplomatic tone, easy and bland. Dis smirks from behind him. He's been practicing.

"It can only be that he asked you to," She continues, stepping around to face him. "and he'd only do that if the two of you were up to something..." Dis trails off, locking eyes with her eldest child.

He doesn't flinch.

Dis winks and holds up a folded scrap of parchment. Fili lunges for it but Dis is faster, holding it up for Glhîn to pluck from her fingers. To his credit, he doesn't clamber after it once it's enclosed in the guard's formidable fist. Fili does, however, give his mother the stink-eye.

"A note from Kili, perhaps?" Dis asks, cool as the statue beside her. "What does it say, I wonder."

"Can't make head nor tail of it," Glhîn grunts turning it around and over in her hands. "Wrote it in their secret gobbledygook, he did."

"That is not a word," Fili fumes, "You made it up just now."

"Nay, I did not." Glhîn chuckles as she stashes the note under her vambrace.

"Fili," Calling his attention back to her with her tone, Dis shakes her head, folding her hands beneath her bust. "This all may seem frivolous to you both now, but as you grow you will see how important these sorts of events are -"

"_Casual encounters are the mounting for the gem of diplomacy."_ Fili quotes with a sigh.

"Balin will be pleased to know you at least listen to his lessons," Dis remarks, "even if you don't heed them."

"We -"

"I'm disappointed in you, Fili, in you _both_." Dis emphasizes.

"Only because we got caught." He says, his expression cheeky but for his eyes. They are the eyes of a child worrying after his mother's love.

Dis knuckles at her son's growing mustache, nearly long enough to braid now, and graces him with her first genuine smile of the evening. She glances around, there is no one near enough to overhear, but she leans in and drops her voice anyway. Fili comes forwards to meet her, their noses but an inch apart.

"Was it going to be good?" She asks, gleeful.

"The best yet." He assures, eyes twinkling like polished jewels.

"Well, don't stint!" She huffs, giving him a poke in the ribs. "Details, mudùmel, details!"

"Oh, no! We're keeping some of our secrets, at least." Fili laughs, dodging her stabbing finger.

"Indeed? Well, just you remember, I brought you into this world -"

"- and you've got 80 years more experience so I should check my bedding for tunnel spiders?"

"Don't be silly, darling, I'm a _princess_ of the line of Durin," Dis says, offended. "I'd never be so _crude_. Now off with you." She says, flicking her hands as though ridding them of droplets of water. "Go rescue your brother with your wit, if not your prank."

Dis follows him around the statue of ice and watches him slip off amongst the revelers, his honeyed hair like a beacon in the sea of ebony and brunette.

"You mollycoddle them, my Lady."

"Perhaps. Sometimes I can't help but feel as though my time with them grows short." Dis sighs, staring after her son even as the crowd shallows him up. She shivers. "It's a nonsensical thought, I know, they have so much life ahead of them, but a mother has her fears."

They stand for a moment in silence, the party going on around them. The musicians take up a reel and space is made for the dancers as they weave into interlocking rings. Skirts flutter and fly as dwarrowdams spin and whirl, colorful fabrics flashing like jewels set upon the revolving crown of the dance floor. Kili is among their number, dancing with a merchant's daughter, a grin splitting his face. Fili dances closer with his own partner and as they pass, instead of trading as they ought, Fili and Kili go careening off together, leaving a ripple of laughter in the wake of their antics.

Glhîn taps Dis on the shoulder and tips her head towards a group of nobles and guild officials. Rising above their heads is a dark fan of hair and below it, Dwalin's scowling face.

"Tell me, Glhîn," Dis asks as they begin making their way closer, "are those knuckle dusters on your cousin's fists?"

"Aye."

"Lovely."

"I don' understand it, he pays as little heed to formalities as I an' yet, none give _him_ a foul look."

"He's near twice your size and has a bloody massive warhammer strapped to his back."

Glhîn snorts. "And wha' use would that be? I've got daggers stashed in my skivvies." Glhîn says, paying no attention at all to the scandalized stares that follow them. "Far more practical in a crowd and with the added bonus tha' no one knows I've got 'em."

Dis stops and blinks at her. "Wouldn't you have to disrobe to get at them?"

"All part o' the strategy," Glhîn winks, "shock an' awe, my Lady, shock an' awe an' a dagger through the liver. Works every time."

"Never change, my friend." Dis says, contemplating the buttocks of a particularly rotund member of the Miner's Guild before giving it a firm prod. She turns and scowls after an imaginary miscreant as the sejerûn startles and looks around. "What a naughty little scamp, jabbing decent folk in the rump! Oh, Master Nûnt, do excuse me, I require a word with my brother."

"Er, yes, of course, your Highness." Blinking, Nûnt wipes the befuddled expression from his face and turns to grunt with self ascribed authority. "Make way, you lot! Make way for Princess Dis!"

The group parts like shale under the hammer of a chisel, sudden and sharp, giving her room to move past. At the very center her brother stands with Dwalin at his back, face a stony mask as the dwarves around him try to gauge his mood and curry favor. His eyebrows are heavy, dipping down towards his nose in what Dis has come to recognize as a warning of a fast approaching boorish snit. Dis intercedes before the situation can escalate.

"There you are, dearest nadad," She calls, throwing simpering smiles to those she brushes by. "Our Lord grandfather will be making his speech in not too much longer, pray escort me to the dais?"

"It would be my pleasure, namad." Thorin offers her his arm and she takes it, resting her hand in the warm curve of his elbow. He doesn't bother to excuse them, turning with a nod and leading them away. The crowd gives way before them without seeming to take note of their passing, giving the two royals privacy as they stroll together.

"That was quite the scowl on your face, dear brother." Dis comments, glancing up at Thorin from the corner of her eye.

His expression darkens as he answers, "It is egregious enough that they speak of grandfather as increasingly inconsequential amongst themselves, but to hint at it in my presence is far more brazen than they should dare."

"It's to be expected," Dis replies, pinching Thorin's arm through his coat when he looks at her askance. "You _have_ been telling me that he spends far more time in the treasury and with the exchequers than he does with council or in chambers." She goes on when he nods. "He delegates more and more of his responsibilities to father, is less and less an active force in the court. In all honesty, it surprises me that it's taken them this long to start poking their noses in."

"They want to consolidate more power for themselves." He grumbles, voice low and unamused.

"Of course they do," Dis laughs, "they're _nobles_, that's what they _do!_ They're ever only a step behind us, nipping at our heels, keeping us on our toes..."

"Keeping us from what's _important_." Thorin snaps as they ascend the marble stairs to the focal point of the Receiving Hall. The Grand Dais looks over the entirety of the great chamber, green granite columns rising up like distant towers to the vaults of the ceiling, cloaked in blazing candlelight and flickering shadows. Below, the floor is a swarm of dwarrows and Dale folk, tapering out around the edges to gathering tables and lounges. Their father rises from one such table, bowing to the king, he gestures towards Thorin and Dis. Thrór takes one last long drink of ale and rises, furred coat dragging as he makes his way towards the dais, Thráin two steps behind him.

"You'd rather walk the causeways and descend into the Deeps than attend a party." Dis comments as they stop to stand on the middle stair, watching their kin draw nearer. "Just like the boys. The difference being, they can sometimes get away with it." Dis smiles up at Thorin, a twinkle in her eye.

"A ruler must have an appreciation for all his people," Thorin says, voice low. "Not just the ones beleaguered by gold and ego. I'd gladly leave them to your skillful manipulations."

"In truth, neither of us is well suited to politics." Dis murmurs, leaning against his arm. "It's a game I play of necessity, and one you seem to have been born weary of."

They bow as Thrór climbs the stairs, passing them by with hardly a glance. Their father comes to stand a few stairs above them as they turn to regard the king. He stands before the throne, embossed in purest gold and set with opals and diamonds, the Arkenstone glows at its apex, brought from the Zabadogimel in the Royal Colonnade to adorn his seat. He stands waiting as silence flows out amongst the gathering.

"I miss him." Thorin whispers, clutching her hand.

"We all do." Dis blinks back any impending tears.

"He would have thrived here, I should have been the one to go-"

"It's in the past, there's nothing to be done about it now." She holds his hand tightly, squeezing his fingers until he breathes out, one long breath. "Now. Smile for the King."

"We gather here in gladful jubilation on the confirmation of Kili, son of Fiki and Dis, youngest of my line," Thrór's voice rings through the hall when the crowd has gone still. In the pause that follows a thunder of applause goes up, rising to the ceiling and echoing off the walls.

"_Please,_" Dis hisses, head angled back just a fraction, "tell me my youngest isn't standing on any furniture."

"Not furniture, no." Glhîn's voice drifts up from the bottom step where she stands at guard. "On a plinth, more like."

"Fili won't let 'im fall." Dwalin rumbles by her side. "Got a hand on his hip."

"_Mahal,_ that boy!" Dis sighs.

"It is with pride that I welcome you into these gloried halls, honored guests, that you may partake of the abundance of our hospitality until you reach repletion. The Line of Durin, most exalted of..." and so it goes, grandiose and droning, and Dis pays it no mind. She has heard its like a hundred times before and will a hundred times again; there are more important matters that require her attention.

She taps at the flesh of her brother's hand with her thumb, drawing his attention, and speaks quietly so her voice will not carry. "Do you know what I caught Fili doing just before I came to you?"

"Nothing too ill-considered, I hope." He replies just as softly, quirking one dark brow.

"Preparing to carry out Kili's mischief-making," Dis says, tamping down on a smile. "He wouldn't tell me what it was about, but he certainly looked pleased with their little scheme."

"He wouldn't tell you?" Thorin asks, voice lilting up in his surprise. "You must have been feeling sentimental."

"He thought I would put tunnel spiders in his bed to scare it out of him."

"Did he?"

"As if I would."

"Certainly not."

"Far too pedestrian."

"Do you know, I've grown rather fond of them."

"You're a demented individual."

"It's been through exposure, I should think." Thorin says, tilting his head as though in thought. "It was your favorite trick as I recall."

"Lies and slander." She huffs. They glance at each other briefly before they must look away or risk falling to their mirth before the entire court. Thorin is smiling with his eyes and all is right with the world again.

"- and so it is in this place and at this time that I, Heir of Durin and King under the Mountain, do declare a campaign of such illustrious purpose and righteous aim that none would dare call it folly! Subjects of Erebor! Sigin-tarâg! Before my reign comes to completion, Khazad-dûm will resound with the thunder of dwarvish hammers!"

A cold chill runs down Dis' spine.

So loud are the cheers of the gathered crowd that Dis can feel their voices vibrating within her chest. The stomping of feet sends quakes through the granite floor, up her legs and into her bones. Above her, the chandeliers begin to tremble and shake, their ornaments clipping against each other with a sound like shattering crystal. Against all propriety, she turns her back on the king to stare out at the sea of dwarrows. It is like staring into the face of a dire beast. They are a writhing mass, heads thrown back as they cry out, eyes burning fierce, wet lips pulled back and teeth glistening in the flickering light of the chandeliers. They are enraptured with the king's visage, reaching out as though to grasp the promise of his words and horde it in their arms. At the end of the hall the tall doors stand open, the guards gaze in at a loss as the elves take their leave, fair and serene but for the hard lines of their faces.

Dis doesn't realize she's descending the stairs until Thorin's grip digs into her arm, holding her in place. She turns to him, eyes wide.

"We cannot be seen to leave," He says, voice smooth but firm.

She turns to her shomakhâlinh. Glhîn stands at the ready, shoulders thrown back and jaw set.

"Find them." Dis commands.

"No fear, my Lady," Glhîn replies, hand over her heart. "I'll get 'em out." Then she turns and pushes her way through the crowd, unstoppable as a rolling bolder.

"They'll be so upset." Dis remarks softly, as though in a daze.

Dwalin lays his hand on his mighty hammer, standing with the other royal guards to deter anyone from pushing their way forward. In the background she can hear the a quiet argument unfolding between the king and his heir.

"Their safety comes before all else." Thorin assures her. "They will see reason."

"No, it's not that." Dis says, bringing a shaking hand up to her face. Thorin throws her a questioning glance. "No prank they can dream up will ever top this."

She laughs as her stomach roils in her gut.

* * *

.

* * *

Chapter End Notes: For those who are interested: a vielle is the medieval predecessor to the violin and related instruments. The krumhorn (more commonly spelled: crumhorn) is a kind of medieval wind-cap that sounds a bit like an oboe crossed with a didgeridoo played by a constipated duck and decorated with a crook on the end in case you feel the need to garrote the musician in front of you. I feel very strongly that it's exactly the sort of instrument that dwarves would take great pleasure in. ;)

A tunnel spider is an eight legged beast from the pits of hell. Do a google search for "African cave spider" and prepare yourself to run screaming from the room.

* * *

Words marked by a (*) were created by me using existing words from The Dwarrow Scholar's dictionary because no canon word existed that would suit my purpose.

**Translations:**

Shomakhâlinh – guardian who is female

Emùlhekhizu – Your Majesty

Èzùkhos Mednemahagrîfâl* – Chief Doorkeeper (master of ceremonies type dude)

Nudûy – boys

Agùlabâlinh – female council member

Mudùmel – Comfort of comforts

Amad – mother

Inùdoyuh – my son

Sejerûn – tradesman

Nadad – brother

Namad – sister

Zabadogimel – Thrór's throne (lit. Throne of all thrones)

Sigin-tarâg – Longbeards (i.e. Durin's folk)


	3. Remarkable Daughters: Part 1

The rumor travels west, a dwarf travels east.

Note: This took longer than expected because it ended up being longer than expected. The entire chapter is about 14,000 words so far and isn't quite done yet. My beta and I agree that the first half is good to go, so I'm posting it for all you lovely people to read while I finish up the second half. Thank you to everyone who's shown an interest in this story, it's so wonderful to hear that you're enjoying it. :)

* * *

**Three Remarkable Daughters**

**Part 1**

* * *

The rumor runs through the Lonely Mountain like a fracture through stone.

The crack first sounds in the capacious kitchens of Erebor as servers rush down from the Receiving Hall with empty trays and flagons. _'A campaign'_ they say, loud enough to be heard over the bubbling pots and sizzling meats. _'An army will march south to Khazad'd__û__m'_ they say as the Kitchen Master shakes her head in wonder. It travels with the Larder-keep to the Grand Marketplace on the first Rise and out the towering gates of the mountain. _'Glory and riches',_ it whispers in the ears of merchants and traders making their way towards Dale, _'our birthright'_ they whisper back as they make their way through its streets.

The rumor splinters, small chips breaking off amongst the men and women of the valley. It creeps under doors and through open windows, slips into the holds of ships and whispers through their sails. _'Greed, greed, greed'_ it chants, but also – _'opportunity'_.

South, then west and towards the woods is where the main fissure leads, following behind a convoy of wagons. The rumor nests with letters and missives wrapped in bundles and tied with string. Ink traps it in the folds of parchment, keeps it pinned like an insect under glass. But around it the dwarves speculate and debate, _'how long to plan'_ they wonder, and _'how many to take'_.

Their pipe smoke rises, curling around branches and lingering in the leaves fading to gold and orange and red, along the Old Forest Road. Here the rumor is a silvery web, shimmering across the minds of elves, their words like morning dew gleaming in the sharp light of day. _'Hubris and folly'_ they murmur between the trees, walking beneath the sun. Under starlight they turn their gaze south and in the dark they whisper other words.

_Moria._

_Balrog._

The words are carried on the songs of birds, in the last dance of the bees as the air begins to chill. They reach the ears of a colossal bear, watching from a high hill in the light of dawn as the Stone Children ford their wagons across the river.

At the foot of the Misty Mountains rumor and dwarves alike are stalled in their journey. Winter has come, bringing blizzards and rock slides. They must clear the Low Pass as they travel, slowing their progress by weeks and dwindling their supplies. The dwarves cluster around the cook fire at night, beards caked in frost, shivering from the cold and from exhaustion. They do not sleep well, can never fully relax, but not from the threat of goblin raids. The rumor is restless, a constant beat in their ears like picks chipping away at stone. _'Onwards, onwards, onwards'_.

They follow the frozen Loudwater through the foothills north of Rivendell, not stopping for rest or trade. The rumor passes by the last house of elves, unheard but not unnoticed. Sharp eyes watch the procession as it moves onto the East-West Road. Word will reach them eventually and they will shake their heads at the rashness of dwarves.

West through forest and hills they travel, over the rushing waters of the Hoarwell. The hooves of their pack ponies and the wheels of their wagons clack and crunch on the stones of the Last Bridge, its three arches spanning high above the wide ravine below. As the end of winter approaches the shadow of Weathertop can be seen through the morning mist. The caravan turns north.

They press forward along the roadways of the Arnor plains, skirting north of the Weather Hills and the Shire with its insular inhabitants. Hunting as they go, their bellies are never more than half full – the rumor won't let them tarry. _'Onwards, onwards, onwards'_.

The first flowers of spring bloom in whites and yellows and pinks as they cross the fields south of the North Downs. In the distance the ruins of Deadman's Dike loom like jagged teeth. Shadows peer at them from behind broken walls, watching until the caravan fades into the distance.

Ered Luin's first watchtower stands at the bend of the Brandywine as it turns south towards the Shire. The water runs clear and fast, brimming with snow-melt running down from Lake Evendim. The sakhabâl on duty spots the lead wagon at midday, rubs at his eyes and looks again. He calls down to the other dwarves of the tower. They drop their brooms and dustcloths, abandon their attempts to get the way-station up to snuff for the coming year and ascend the tower steps in leaps and bounds. They jostle and clamber for the best spots, kicking at shins and pulling at braids. _'Traders already?'_ they exclaim and stare as the wagon train approaches, wondering what madness could have brought them from the east in the dead of winter.

The wagons reach them in the mid-afternoon. They are in a sorry state, sides nicked and dented, wheels hastily mended and the merchants themselves are half starved, their braids mussed and their beards in knots. The watchmen rush them inside, give them stew and ale and wrap them in blankets. The stew goes cold, the ale untouched. The rumor strikes, hammer to chisel. _'__Khazad'd__û__m, Khazad'd__û__m, Khazad'd__û__m!'_ is its cry. _'Glory and riches and honor!'_ is the fire it lights beneath their feet.

The bundle of letters is unearthed from the cargo, wrapped in a rain slick and tied to a pony. The rider leaves at a gallop, presses hard until the animal can take no more. He rests until the first light of dawn and presses hard again. He makes the next tower in record time and passes the bundle on. From tower to tower it travels, around the lake and through the Hills of Evendium, speeding west through storm and wind and under the warming sun and waxing moon until it reaches the River Lhûn. Rider and rumor turn north, passing the first coal shipments of the year, racing past at such speed that the wagons stop and turn back, fearing a goblin raid.

_'Onwards, onwards, onwards'._

The last rider leaves the foothills of Ered Luin in the second week of Âfdurin just as the pansies and bluestars are at their peek and the yellow daffodils are fading. She climbs the winding path to the central colony, up past sharp crags and steep bluffs. Her pony is damp with sweat as she dismounts at the guard tower.

"What's this then?" A burly guard with a massive black beard asks, giving the bundle a suspicious once over.

"News from Erebor!" She answers, reveling in the looks of shock she receives. "News you won't believe!"

* * *

.

* * *

Bofur stands in the center of the room, hat twisted in his hands, and waits. Outside, the business of Ered Luin goes on, the clatter of carts and hum of voices seeping through the walls and under the crack of the door. Sunlight pours in through one small window, highlighting dust motes as they float in the quiet of the Healer's Hut. The _skritch-skritch_ of quill on parchment tapers off as Healer Thivi sets his ledger aside.

"There now, what can I do for you Master...?" One silvery eyebrow arches as he waits.

"Ah – I'm Bofur, Vustmâhâl Thivi..." Bofur trails off, waiting for some kind of recognition. "Bifur's cousin?"

"Oh, yes! I remember now," Thivi nods, curling a strand of his beard around one bony finger. "Not causing any more trouble, I hope?" He asks, chuckling to himself.

Bofur shifts and darts his eyes down. "Well, no, he's been keepin' to himself, mostly-"

"Good to hear! Very good." Thivi cuts in, pulling a scribing board and piece of soft chalk off a nearby self. "What is it that brings you here then?"

"Well... it's just, you see, my cousin-"

"A different cousin?" Thivi asks, not looking up and poised to take notes.

Bofur pauses and takes a breath. "No... it's about Bifur," Thivi sighs and sets the board and chalk aside, pinching at his nose. Bofur hurries on. "It's been years – and we're all mighty thankful that you fixed him up best as you could – and we've done everything you said, right to the letter. But it's been an awful long time now and he's just, he's not getting any better, you see..."

"He has a goblin's ax lodged in his brain, Master Bofur." Thivi replies flatly. "It's not the sort of thing you can _recover_ from."

"I, yes, I know but," The Healer rises from his seat and comes around his desk. Laying a hand on Bofur's shoulder Thivi begins to push him towards the door. "It's just he seems to be getting' worse! He gets confused and he goes on about goblins and wargs and dragons and other beasties – he hides things from us now and – and takes off south when he thinks we're not looking and-" Bofur catches his breath as he's herded out into the busy street, stumbling over the threshold.

"Master Bofur!" Thivi blurts. He glances around the bustling crowd, straightens his coat and lowers his voice. "An ax is an ax and there's nothing more to be done about it. All you can do is keep your cousin quiet and out of other folk's way. Good day!" He turns back and shuts the door in Bofur's face.

Bofur stands in the street for a while, watching the door and clutching his hat as dwarrows and 'dams pass him by. From inside a shade is drawn down over the window.

Eventually he looks down at his hands, sighs and puts his hat back on his head.

Slowly, he makes his way past shops and the miner's halls, none give him a second glance and he doesn't stop to browse or make conversation. There's some kind of commotion going on by the gate but he pays it no mind and turns right at the coal piles, walking past huts and shanties. Wooden structures intended to be temporary, they lean and list, propped up by random branches and mining struts. Their number grows thin and still he walks, out past the edges of the settlement where the road becomes a path, becomes a trail. Under trees and past a small stream, not bothering to keep his feet dry, Bofur turns round a bend and stops.

The house is better constructed than those that came before, walls built from stones fitted together just so, planks covered with miner's putty and strips of bark make up its roof and the windows have shutters that actually fit. A large pile of wood is stacked along one wall, sheets and tunics hang to dry from a line running out to a low branch on a nearby pine.

Bofur takes a breath, wipes at his face and squares his shoulders. He crosses the distance to the door in long, loping strides and throws it open, a wide grin spread across his face.

"I'm home!" He calls, shucking his outer belt and coat and hanging them on an empty peg by the door.

"It's all right, Bofur," Loti calls from the next room. "He's gone out for a walk with the boys."

Bofur lets his shoulders sag and works his feet out of his boots, kicking them into the corner by the wood-box. He navigates his way through the front room, skirting the hearth bench and stepping over discarded toys, and into the back. Loti stands over the fire-pit, stirring a pot of soup and balancing little Lomi on her hip. He comes to stand by her and takes a whiff of supper.

"Squirrel?"

"They've been at the walnut again." She sighs and wipes her forehead with her arm. Loti turns and studies his face, piecing his day together. "Yadi, Lomi, khajimzu Idad mim âzyung." She says and boosts her daughter in his direction.

Bofur plucks his niece up and pulls out a stool from beneath the table with his foot. Sitting down he sets Lomi on his lap and bounces her on his knee. She smiles and giggles up at him.

"Bo-Ida'!" She laughs and tugs at his mustache.

"How bad was it then?" Loti asks, taking a sip of the soup.

Bofur sighs and winces as he loses a few hairs. "He threw me out. Didn't even listen."

His sister-in-law makes a frustrated noise and knocks the stirring spoon against the lip of the pot harder than is needed to remove any stray drops. "Some healer, he is!" She huffs. "Won't even listen to poor folk when they come for help!"

"He doesn't think he _can_ help," Bofur says, running his hand over Lomi's soft hair. "Doesn't think there's anything _to_ help."

"That, that... that horrible _dharg!_" She says, pulling out another stool and sitting down beside him. Reaching up, she loosens the ribbons holding the delicate golden braids of her beard up and out of the way. They fall, just brushing the hood of her dress as she pats them straight. "When Bombur gets home I'll-"

"There's nothing Bom can do, Loti."

Loti opens her mouth as if to protest, pauses and closes it again. She takes a breath in through her nose and nods, brings the edge of her apron up to dab at her eyes. Bofur pats one plump wrist. They sit together, gazing with dull eyes at the flickering flames and simmering pot. Their breaths come low and even and, together with the muted sounds of the passing afternoon, send Lomi to sleep. She's a warm weight in the crook of Bofur's arm.

"He forgot where he was this morning." Loti's soft words break the silence. Bofur says nothing, brushing wispy strawberry hair back from his niece's face. "He was upset that you'd left before him, said you couldn't open the shop by yourself."

"When have we ever had a shop?" Bofur asks, lips twisting up into a crocked smile.

"At least he didn't go rushing off to the mines like last month." Loti sighs.

Bofur grimaces. The Irkatguchir had not been pleased to see Bifur pushing his way through the tunnels and had made his opinion known, loudly and in no uncertain terms. Bofur's gotten the more grueling tasks for weeks now in retaliation. Nothing is more brutal than hauling carts full of coal to the surface except, Bofur has found, hauling that other black lump that miners produce.

"He can't keep on like this." Loti states, repeating words said many times before. "He's miserable."

"There's got to be somethin' that can help him..." Bofur says, watching the shadows grow longer.

Loti squeezes his hand, hesitates, then whispers, "What if there isn't?"

"There's got to be somethin'." He says, half to himself. Loti pats his hand, soft touch lingering for a moment before she stands and goes back to tending the soup.

The thought nags at him the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening, he hardly notices as his arm goes numb under his slumbering niece. Bofur gives his brother an absent nod as Bomber greets his wife with a kiss. Their chatter passes over his head like a gentle breeze, their worried glances go unnoticed. His nephews are a stormy gust as they come barreling into the back room, falling over themselves as they rush to recount their latest adventures. Lomi startles awake, mewing in distress. She's lifted from his arms before Bofur can even blink. Looking up he finds her in the careful hold of his cousin. Bifur makes faces at her until she quiets, blows raspberries until she giggles and buries her face in his beard.

Bofur rubs the pins and needles from his arm. He watches with half a mind as Loti fills bowls with soup for the table and the boys gather the remainder of the morning's bread and butter. He scoots his stool back towards the table as the family gathers round. Bifur sits beside him with a plate of raw carrots, the greens still attached.

"At least try some of the soup, cousin." Loti sighs as she mashes brothy potatoes and shredded meat for Lomi.

"Ma blugi zurmmuzmnutû." Bifur grumbles, crunching into his first carrot.

"I'll have his!" Bimfur calls, waving one arm in the air.

"Finish what you've got," Bombur tells his eldest, "then you can have seconds."

Bofur stirs his soup and watches bits of potato and onion bob to the surface. Dinner conversation goes on around him but it's all a wash of noise in his ears. He watches Bifur from the corner of his eye. It seems he's doing better at least, his cousin eats with quiet enthusiasm, hands steady and eyes focused. If Bifur sleeps well tonight Bofur might have him walk to the edge of the settlement with him in the morning. It's not fair, keeping him isolated in the woods, whatever Healer Thivi says.

"-and Zokhosâl Ning says we'll start learning to write in Westron," Bimfur mumbles through a mouth full of bread. "Since we all speak it anyway."

"What's the point of that?" Bombur wonders, muttering under his breath. "Half the miners can barely read Cirth as it is. No offense meant." He adds, glancing at his brother and cousin.

Bofur just shrugs, it's never bothered him.

"You'll remember to get eggs from the hen-house before you go to lessons in the morning." Loti says, scooping potato off Lomi's face and back into her mouth. "You forgot today."

"Do I _have_ to?" Bimfur whines. His mother gives him a stern look. "But Bifur-Idad's been hiding jerky in there again! They get _mean_ when he does that."

The table goes very quiet. Bifur rises, the scrape of his stool grating in their ears, and heads down the back hallway, leaving the rest of his dinner uneaten. Loti looks down at her plate and sighs.

"Sorry, Amad..." Bimfur mumbles. Bombur pats him on one pudgy shoulder.

"Bifur-Idad doesn't love us anymore." Bemfur whispers, the first words he's spoken since dinner started.

"Oh, no, Muhudel that's not true!" Loti gasps, pulling him in for a sideways hug. "Your uncle loves us all _very_ much."

"Then why's he always trying to _leave_?" He cries, voice muffled against his mother's ample chest.

Loti looks up to Bofur and her husband, at a loss for words. Bofur rubs his face with both hands and then rests against them. He hears Bomber take in a breath.

"Well, you see – he's restless is what it is." His brother explains, going slowly. "He can't work in the mines anymore and there just isn't much for him to do..."

"But he plays with us every day!" Bimfur protests.

"He can't do that all the time, sweetling," Loti says gently. "He's just looking for something new."

"Don't know what he thinks is so interesting over that way." Bombur waves his arm towards the south and east, Bifur's favored direction of travel. Loti glares at him over the bread-bowl, clearly he doesn't get the message. "Nothing there-abouts but that elf port," Bombur gives an amused huff, "and the Shire of course. Can you imagine their faces if Bif-"

"Hobbits!" Bofur shouts and shoots up, sending his stool crashing and bashing his head against the lantern. Shadows dance around the room as he stumbles back, rubbing at his head. "Hobbits! _Right._" He rambles and stumbles towards the back door. Throwing it open he looks over the dusty ground then down at his stocking feet. "Boots!" He blurts and spins on his heel.

"Bo, what're you doing?" Bomber asks, following his brother through the door and into the front room. Bofur ignores him, grabs his boots, stuffs a foot in one and stumbles towards the back, half hopping along as he tries to force the other one on as he goes. "Can't talk now," he says, brushing by, "need to get things in ord_eeerr-Oooph!"_ Bofur scrambles up off the floor amidst the children's laughter, stomps his foot the rest of the way into his boot and hurries out the back door.

The chicken coop is behind the garden, but Bofur doesn't bother to cut around, just goes straight through, hopping over seedlings and dashing down the rows. He skids to a halt in front of the little door and dives in face first.

"Bofur! What on earth!" Loti yells from the back door, loud enough to be heard perfectly through the wooden walls of the coop.

Bofur kicks his feet against the ground and pushes his way further in, launching perturbed poultry out of his way and spitting out bits of fluff and straw. "Where's he stashed it – _Aach!_ Shoo, shoo! _Evil_ little sods. Ah-ha!" He cries in triumph, pulling a bundle of jerky wrapped in burlap out from under a particularly unhinged hen. "Stop it! Get _orff_. I ate yer mother with gravy and mash!"

Scrambling back on hands and knees, Bofur clamps the jerky between his teeth and takes off running, hat held firmly to his head. Behind him, the rooster crows and thrashes its wings in belligerent fury. The boys run back inside, shrieking as their uncle approaches, fuming fowl pecking at his heels.

Bofur jumps and grabs hold of the eave, pulling himself up. The rooster plows straight into the foundation stone, knocking the sense out of itself and bouncing back in a mess of feathers.

"Oh! Poor Leopold!" Loti cries.

Bofur hums gleefully, snatches a water-skin wedged under a beam and drops back down to the ground. He rushes through the house like a whirlwind, children chasing behind him as he jumps on furniture to reach the tops of shelves. He finds a rain-slick folded behind Loti's best serving platter, a travel pack stuffed up the chimney and several snare wires at the bottom of the sweets jar. He's in the middle of dumping out the toy box, Lomi and the boys running around catching everything he tosses aside and throwing it up over their heads in excitement, when Bomber and Loti catch up.

"Look at this mess!" Loti shouts, Leopold stuffed under one arm. "Stop right this instant, put those toys down! No, not you dear, your _uncle_."

"What are you doing, Bo?" Bomber asks, ducking a stray teddy.

"Looking for a whetstone and tinderbox," Bofur responds, rummaging through a muster of wooden warriors. "He usually stashes them in here – yes! Here they are." He stuffs them into the pack with the rest of his finds and pulls himself to his feet.

"I mean, what are you doing it _for_?" Bombur asks as Bofur ducks under his arm and back to the table. He grabs the last loaf of bread, snags a half-block of cheese off a shelf and wraps it up in a cloth, wedges them both into a small pot and shoves the whole lot into the pack.

"No time to talk, there's a skinnin' knife hidden somewhere callin' my name!" Bofur calls, trotting down the hall to the room he shares with his cousin. He pushes aside the curtain and heads straight for the chest at the foot of his bed. Bifur glances up from his carving as Bofur slams open the lid.

"Mâhizu yothurur kalat," Bifur grumbles as Bofur pulls out shirts and breeches and rolls them up into the traveling pack. Bifur narrows his eyes and points at it. "Yadi khidu, rûmzhâshnikuduh!"

"I'm _borrowing_ it." Bofur says, grabbing a wad of stockings and cramming them into the disputed pack. "I'm goin' to the Shire for medicine."

"Ganagi ya!"

"No. You've got to stay here, Bif." Bofur says, pulling the tie-string tight and knotting it. "Loti'll need to take on more work while I'm gone. She'll need your help with the little 'uns."

Bifur grumbles under his breath but Bofur knows he'll do as he's asked. He loves the children as fiercely as most dwarves love metal and stone.

"Right, now where've you hid the knife?" Bofur asks, getting to his feet. Bifur gives him an exasperated look. "The wood pile – o' course!" He says, slinging the pack over his shoulder and turning towards the doorway.

Bombur's heavy footsteps come trudging down the hall.

Bofur turns around again and dives out the window.

"_Right!"_ He says. Dusting himself off, he straightens and makes a run around the house. He doubles back to the front door, darts his arm around to grab his coat and belt and takes off again, juggling the pack as he shrugs his arms into the sleeves. Around the corner and ducking under the clothes line, he stops at a likely looking gap in the wood pile and sticks his hand in. There, right where he expected, is the smooth leather handle of Bifur's skinning knife. Bofur pulls it out, buckles his belt over his coat and wedges the blade underneath it.

Hurrying back around to the front he finds the whole family waiting for him.

"Where are you going-" Loti starts before Bofur pulls her into a hug, spins her round and round and leaves her dizzy against the wall. He flits around the children, giving them each a kiss on the head. Bombur grabs at his arm and pulls him to a stop.

"Just stop an' let's talk about this!" He says, worry crinkling his eyes. Bofur knocks their foreheads together extra hard, sending them both stumbling back.

Free again, Bofur wobbles a bit, slaps Bifur on the back, turns towards the River Lhûn and takes off at a dead sprint.

"Bofur, stop!" Loti cries behind him. "It'll be dark in an hour!"

"Not as dark as the mines!" Bofur calls over his shoulder. "Sorry, can't doddle, I've a long way to go!"

"What do I tell the Irkatguchir when you don't show up tomorrow?" Bombur yells, confused.

Bofur runs through the trees and out into the fields, tall grass whipping at his knees as he goes past.

"Tell him I got tired of hauling shit!" He yells back, not caring if they can still hear him.

The world is open at his feet and he races towards it head on.

* * *

.

* * *

Two weeks of steady hiking see Bofur to the edge of the Shire. The journey had been fairly uneventful, aside from a memorable encounter with a rampaging nanny goat that had him running through the foothills for the better part of an hour. The rough terrain of the Blue Mountains had smoothed out as he'd gone, into rolling hills and sweeping meadows filled with the greenest grass and brightest flowers he's ever seen. Even the sky seems to have become bluer the farther he's gotten, filling out into a startling periwinkle. He crests a gentle rise and sees a pond not thirty paces further, water clear as quartz trickling south out into a small stream. Purple irises and white daisies grow in clumps around the water and as he watches, darting streaks of silver flash below the surface. He's eaten very well the past week, catching nice, fat hares and finding plenty of mushrooms and tubers whenever he's stopped to look, but he's rather looking forward to a meal he doesn't have to gut and cook himself.

"You wouldn't happen to know where a humble traveler such as myself could get a hot meal, now would you?" He asks, looking out along what he can see of the horizon. If he didn't know for a fact that there was a whole mess of hobbits living in these parts he never would have guessed it. There doesn't seem to be any sign of civilized life as far as the eye can see.

The surrounding bushes say nothing.

He shrugs and follows a winding animal trail down to the pond. Reaching the edge, Bofur shucks his pack and unstraps his water-skin from the side. Pulling the stopper, he submerges it in the pond, filling it up to the very brim and then takes a hearty gulp. It's cold as ice-melt and twice as refreshing. The trailing branches of a nearby willow look like they'd make for a cozy retreat so he wanders over and sits with his back to the trunk, facing out along the pond.

And the bushes.

"It's just you've been following me for going on fifteen minutes or so," he continues, turning his hands this way and that, examining the dirt under his nails, "and I was thinking-"

"Hah!" The bushes cry in triumph. "Shows what _you_ know, we've been on your tail for neigh on an hour – _Youch!_" The bush shakes and vomits up a small fellow dressed in greens and grays. Bofur thinks it's a fellow anyway, he hasn't got any beard to speak of. Though he's currently rolling around on the ground clutching at his shins, Bofur's fairly certain that he's a good head shorter than the dwarf.

His head is covered in honey blond curls and his feet have hair on them.

So this is a hobbit, then.

"Tobbi, you dolt!" A rather higher pitched voice exclaims before a smaller, rounder hobbit crashes out, skirt catching on twigs and branches. "You've given us away!"

"You kicked me in the leg, you did!" Tobbi protests, scrambling to his feet and puffing up his chest. "That's unprofessional behavior, that is! Sent me out, bum over tea kettle, right in front of the enemy. I'll be telling the sheriff on you!"

"I wouldn't have kicked yeh, if you hadn't have spoken out like a right ninny!" The other hobbit snaps, poking Tobbi in the chest. Her hair is darker and considerably longer, curls pinned back away from her face. She carries a short, wooden staff which she waves in the air to emphasize her point. "Quietly, I says! Observation and recognizance, I says! But _you_-"

"Er, excuse me?" Bofur cuts in, pulling himself up and looking between the quarreling hobbits. "This enemy you mentioned...?"

"That'd be you, o' course." Tobbi says, matter-of-factly. The lass bops him upside the head.

"What, me?" Bofur replies, choking down a laugh.

"_Yes._ No one else around, is there?" The lass answers, turning towards Bofur, one hand on her hip and her chin in the air. "We've got orders you see-"

"Right!" Tobbi cuts in, taking his life into his hands if his partner's glare is anything to go by. "We been _warned_, we have. You're an invading force, you are!"

"Really?" Bofur looks around and down at his dirt smeared clothes and raggedy pack. "All one of me?"

"You've got a knife." The lass sniffs decisively.

"Well, you've got a staff." Bofur points out.

"That's different!" She snaps back, thumping said staff against the ground. "I'm a _bounder_. We're supposed to carry staffs."

Bofur quirks an eyebrow at her companion.

"Left mine in the garden." Tobbi mutters, blushing and twisting his hands in his shirt.

"Weelll..." Bofur says, raising his hands up, palms out, and far from the knife tucked into his belt. "I'm a dwarf. I'd have an ax too, if I hadn't have left in such a hurry."

"Ah-ha!" Tobbi cries, pointing at Bofur with one stubby finger. "Admitting it, are you?"

"That I'm a dwarf?" Bofur laughs, "I'd think that was obvious."

"No, that you're an _invader_."

"But I'm not!"

"_You_ said you were planning to come _armed_." The lass states as if that's the end of it.

"No! That's, well I mean _yes_ but-" Bofur rubs a hand over his mustache and starts again. "Look, what I _meant_ was, you've got staffs – _a_ staff – because you're bounders, whatever that means," the two hobbits puff up like ruffled hens, "and I'm a _dwarf_, so of course I'm going to have a weapon or two. That's just how it is, I'm not here to _invade_."

"Bounders, for your information," the lass hisses the last bit like a curse, and glares at Bofur down her little button nose, "guard the _bounds_ of the Shire. You, master dwarf, have crossed those bounds. If you're not here to invade-"

"Well he wouldn't say, would he, if he was?" Tobbi snarks. The lass ignores him.

"- then why _are _you here?" She finishes, giving him a suspicious once over.

Bofur gives her his best smile and bows, doffing his hat in an elaborate flourish. "Bofur, son of Bôfbur, at your service." He says, and straightens up. "I'm here looking for medicine."

"Medicine?" Tobbi scoffs. "You expect us to believe that? Do they not have _herbs_ where you're from?"

The lass takes one look at Bofur's flushing face and whacks Tobbi on the bottom with her staff.

"_Owwww!_ What was that for?"

She swings the offending weapon up across her shoulders and, resting her wrists on the wood, tucks one foot behind her and lowers herself down into a curtsy. Bofur blinks, surprised.

"Lilac Gamwich, of the same." Lilac says, still in her curtsy. She waits a moment then tilts, jabbing Tobbi in the ribs with her staff.

"Tobbi Cotton, of Gamwich." He says, rubbing his side.

"You're really here for healing?" Lilac asks, standing straight and planting her staff in the ground.

"Not healing, no. Medicine is what I'd like to find." Bofur corrects, pulling his hat back down over his ears. "It's my cousin, you see. He's got an ax in his head."

They both stare at him for a long moment.

Bofur shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

"_Dwarves_." Tobbi huffs and marches back into the bushes. He fades from view between one blink and the next. Bofur stands gobsmacked, staring into the shrubs and trees but can find no sign of him.

"You really were followin' me for an hour, weren't you?" He whispers, awed.

"Yes... does your cousin really have an ax in his head?"

"Aye," Bofur replies, "got it in the goblin raids seventeen years ago this winter."

Lilac turns to look out over the pond, face serious and eyebrows drawn. Bofur waits patiently while she thinks. Bees buzz from flower to flower in the warm morning light, one settles to rest on Lilac's hand. She doesn't seem to notice. Finally she nods to herself and turns to face him.

With great dignity she says, "You'll be wanting to speak to The Daughters, then."

* * *

.

* * *

Bofur finds the Shire to be both the homiest place he's ever been and more confusing than a warren of demented rabbits.

The first village he comes across (_"Follow the stream and then go south for two leagues after it turns east. That'll have you at Nobottle."_) appears so suddenly it takes his breath away. One moment he's wandering through low hills, wondering if he's lost all sense of direction, and the next he's in the middle of a circuit of homes being chased out of some poor biddy's garden. All around him the grassy hills are dotted with little round windows and heavy, circular doors painted in every shade from marigold to maroon. Delicate picket fences surround beds of flowers and chimneys crest the hilltops, letting out faint puffs of smoke that curl and dissipate amongst the branches of bushes and trees.

A stout hobbit with wispy white hair squints at Bofur from his seat along the cobbled path as he sucks on a long curved pipe.

"Is this Nobottle?" Bofur asks him when he catches his breath.

"That's right." The old man rasps, looking Bofur over. "Here now... you're a dwarf!" He exclaims.

"Well spotted." Bofur responds, "I suspect it's the boots that gave me away." He glances down at the hobbit's hairy bare feet. They look big enough for someone twice his size. "I'm Bofur – from the Blue Mountains." He adds, remembering Lilac's instructions. "I'm looking for the road to Hobbiton. If you could point me that a-ways I'd be right grateful."

"What's a _dwarf_ want in Hobbiton, then?" The hobbit responds, rudely.

"Er, well... I was told I could find one o' the Took daughters there."

"Che!" He chides, blowing smoke out his nostrils. "_Typical_."

"I'm sorry?" Bofur enquirers.

The old hobbit continues on, as though Bofur hadn't spoken. "Not proper behavior, consorting with Outsiders. Hardly respectable! Not that she cares what's said, I'm sure. Lost cause if you ask me, not that anyone does – youngsters these days! No respect."

"Al'right then," Bofur says, taking a slow step back and turning. "I'll... just be off. Good day!"

"Suit yourself," the hobbit grumbles, coughing on pipe-weed. "Everyone else does."

Bofur starts walking down the path, letting out a relieved breath. Who knew hobbits would be so much trouble to talk to?

"Hobbiton's the other way, but you do as you like."

Bofur stops, turns around and trudges back past the geezer. As he goes around a bend in the path and behind a hill Bofur swears he can hear wheezing laughter back the way he came.

The Shire seems to be mostly great rolling meadows interspersed by fields and groves. By evening a meandering river has come into view and Bofur makes camp just off the road under a chestnut tree with a good view of the water. He eats the last rabbit haunch in his pack for dinner and settles down to sleep. The night air is surprisingly warm.

He sets off again in the morning, passing a few hobbits driving carts pulled by hulking oxen (their answering '_Good Morning_'s sound questioning, as if they're beginning to have doubts), and just after mid-day he comes to a town that he thinks must be the one he's after. It's many times larger than Nobottle, hills covered in hobbit holes and several free standing buildings roofed in thatch line the river where it runs past. Everywhere he looks the Little Folk are going about their business, gardening and tilling soil, hanging clothes to dry and herding geese and sheep between the hills. A gaggle of curly-haired children run past, giggling and darting looks at him over their shoulders.

He crosses the bridge (decently built but with a good deal more mortar than necessary and all sorts of things growing on it, it'll crumble in a hundred years, sad really) leading to the largest structure. It seems he's come on a market day. The town green is filled with wooden stalls overflowing with spring vegetables and wares for sale. Colorful parasols and canopies cast shade on fresh fish, baskets of strawberries and bread still warm from the oven. Bofur is firmly reminded by his rumbling stomach that the only thing he's had to eat is a two day old roasted potato.

He stops in front of a stall topped with a mound of peaches and takes in a deep breath of their sweet aroma. His mouth waters.

"Excuse me," Bofur asks the hobbit bent down behind the stall, "what are you asking for two o' these peaches?"

"Depends, friend," comes the reply as the hobbit wiggles backwards, "are you paying with coppers or barter?" He asks, straightening up with a stack of small crates in his arms. He catches sight of Bofur's smiling face and drops the lot. "Here now, you're a dwarf!"

"Amazing!" Bofur drawls, "It's remarkable how you can tell just by looking."

"Well, it's the hair on your face, see." The hobbit answers in all seriousness. "Dwarves have all got it, even the lady dwarves, I hear." He blinks and leans forwards, eyes wide. "See here, you're not a _lady_ are you?"

"What?" Bofur laughs at the hobbit's expression. "I'm not a 'dam!"

"Well! That's no call to curse," the peach seller snaps, "a simple mistake, it was. No need to be _rude_ about it."

"No, I wasn't-" Bofur assures, flapping his hands.

"You did!" The lass selling mushrooms one stall over butts in. "Cursed poor Mister Overhill as blue as the sky."

"No, no, no," Bofur says, trying to explain, "a 'dam is what we-"

"Again!" She blurts and points an accusing finger, "You did it again!"

"Shame on you!" The lady just next to him scolds, covering her son's wee pointed ears. "There are _fauntlings_ present."

Bofur turns and finds himself surrounded by a crowd of hobbits at least three deep, faces pinched above their colorful frocks and coats in various expressions of affronted disapproval. It's a bit like finding one's self waylaid by chattering squirrels, laughably adorable and yet, slightly unnerving.

_Right,_ he thinks, _I can fix this,_ and opens his big mouth.

* * *

.

* * *

"_When the cold wind's a-calling_

_and the sky is clear and bright,_

_Misty mountains sing and beckon,_

_Lead me out into the light!_

_I will ride! I will fly!_

_Chase the wind and touch-_"

Bella is just rounding the Party Tree when she hears it – the sound of an unexpected ruckus. She stops mid-chorus and darts up the rise, looks over The Water towards the Green Dragon and shades her eyes. She rocks back on her heels and bubbles over with laughter.

Crossing the bridge at a dead run is a red-faced dwarf, braids flapping out behind him with half of Hobbiton chasing after him. He takes a right at the turning, rounds the mill and takes off over the sloping grass, likely hoping to outrun them over rough terrain.

"Oh, you poor bugger," She sighs, resting her chin against one hand, "you've _no_ idea, do you?"

He makes good progress and, as he draws closer, Bella can see him begin to relax, drawn into a false sense of security by the Shires' gentle hills. Until he glances behind him. Then he snatches the funny hat from his head and _really_ starts to book it.

"Gonna need to do better than that," She comments and taps her lips with a finger. "Tilly Gussop is catching up."

It seems he's noticed this as well. The dwarf cuts down closer to the river where the ground evens out.

"Well, that's better..."

And then trips over Wallid Minnowback's chimney.

"Oh, you _are_ hopeless." Bella sighs. There's nothing for it really, she'll have to stage an intervention. Hiking her skirts up past her knees she takes off, jumping hedges and cutting straight across the grass, not bothering to stick to the foot paths. She loses sight of her target behind a rise as she makes her way towards the river but she doesn't worry. She has exceptional timing. As he comes round the bend – temporarily cut off from his pursuers – she jumps off one final ledge, down into his path.

The look on the dwarf's face is priceless as she tackles him, sending them both stumbling into a tall thicket of buttonbushes growing in the shallows.

"Shhhhh," She whispers, covering his mouth with an open palm. "We're hiding, Master dwarf."

He nods against her hand, brown eyes wide.

The next moment her friends and neighbors are storming the bend and racing past, shouting as they go.

"Where'd he go?"

"Has he gone?"

"Right! You lot head up the hill and we'll go down The Water!"

"Tally-ho!"

"That's for _foxes_."

"Dwarfy-ho!"

Bella waits a few moments, counting the seconds until the last of their footsteps fade away. When she can't hear them anymore she turns towards her hiding partner, shoulders shaking and snickers.

"What did you _do_ to set them off?" She asks with tears in her eyes.

"Nothing!" The dwarf protests in a hiss. "I was just trying to buy some lunch an' there was a big misunderstanding – I couldn't get a word in edgewise!"

"Well, there's your problem." She comments, shaking her head in mock reproach. "You shouldn't have tried to argue. We hobbits hate arguing – it _disturbs_ the _peace_."

He blinks back at her. "Oh, well... thank you for helping me." He settles his hat back on his head as they trudge their way towards the bank. When they're back on dry ground he turns back and chuckles. "Can't believe it worked actually, none of them even looked our way and we weren't even that well hidden!" He says, examining the sparse covering of twigs and stems.

"Well, you don't know hobbits very well then." Bella says, lifting her skirts up and ringing out the hems. "Terrified of water, you see. None of them would think to look for you in there."

He pauses in the middle of pouring water from his boots and looks at her, head tilted. "But... you're a hobbit, aren't you?"

"Yes," She replies, kicking her feet dry, "But I've often been told that I'm rather remarkable." And she leaves it at that. "What are you doing so far into the Shire anyway – if you don't mind my asking? There haven't been dwarves through here in almost twenty years."

The dwarf stomps back into his moderately dryer boots. They make squelching noises when he moves. "I'm looking for medicine. One of those bounder types out west told me to come here."

"You saw one of the Bounders?" Belladonna asks, impressed despite herself.

"Er, yes. A lad called Tobbi Cotton and a lass by the name of Lilac Gamwich."

"Lally's a Bounder now?" Bella says, half to herself and shaking her head. "Seems like just yesterday she was still in her tweens." She sighs then forces herself to focus. "Why'd she send you here then? There are healers to the west."

"She said I should talk to the daughters."

"_The_ Daughters, more likely." Bella mutters.

"Yes," the dwarf grins, "That's exactly how she said it! How'd you know?"

"Oh, the whole Shires' like that." Bella says, waving a hand dismissively. "Right then. Might as well get started." Giving her skirts a final brush-down she starts making for the bridge. She turns back when she hears no footsteps behind her. "Well, aren't you coming?"

"Coming where?" He asks, then starts in realization. "You know the daughters?"

"Of course, Master dwarf. I'm one of them." She sketches a bow and introduces herself. "Belladonna Baggins, daughter of Gerontius Took, at your service."

He looks surprised by her dwarvish greeting but soon bows in turn. "Bofur, son of Bôfbur, at yours."

"Excellent! Now that that's taken care of, lets get going." She says and turns on her heel, heading for the bridge at a brisk walk. This time Bofur follows, jogging to catch up and walk beside her.

"Is heading back this way really a good idea?" He asks, looking worried.

"Oh, don't worry, that lot are either half way to Bywater by now or they've gotten peckish and wandered off for tea." Bella says with good humor. "Anyway, if we don't take the Waymeet track we won't make it to my sister's in time for supper."

"She won't mind, will she?" Bofur asks, curling his hands around the straps of his pack. "Having guests drop in unexpectedly."

"Oh, probably," She replies, waving it off, "but once she hears that we've missed tea and dinner, she'll be dying to feed us supper."

Bofur's footsteps cut off abruptly. Bella continues on without him.

"How many _meals_ do you lot _eat_?" He calls from behind her.

She grins and laughs at the sky.

* * *

.

* * *

They're across The Water and over the hill, snacking on peaches (several coppers wait for Mister Overhill upon his return) when Bofur next speaks. He looks vaguely uncomfortable and ducks his head, almost guiltily.

"Er, do you suppose you should have let someone know where you were off to?" He asks looking back towards Hobbiton.

"Oh?" Bella responds, looking her peach over for the next tasty bite. "Like who?"

"Well..." He hesitates, working things out. "You said you're Belladonna _Baggins_, not Belladonna Took."

"I am, yes."

"And if hobbit names are anything like the names of Men-"

"They're similar."

"- then you're married to this Baggins fellow." Bofur concludes. He scratches at his chin in a nervous gesture. "Wouldn't he be worried to hear you've wandered off with a dwarf – your kin-folk don't seem all that trusting of dwarves, I'm finding."

"Try not to take it too personally," She says, patting his arm sympathetically. "Most hobbits don't trust anyone who wears shoes."

"But that's nearly everybody!" He sputters.

"Yes, it is." Bella laughs. She pictures her dear husband, eyebrows quirked and mouth set in a worried line. She giggles. "And don't worry about my Bungo, honestly, he'd probably be relieved to hear I've run off with a dwarf this time."

"This time?" Bofur asks, incredulous.

"Oh, yes, I usually run off with a wizard, you see." She answers and winks.

"I'm thinkin' I may be in over my head." He says and chews on the last of his peach apprehensively.

Bella tosses her pit off the track and watches it bounce and roll away. "That's not unusual, believe me."

Bofur's thoughts turn inwards and Bella hums quietly to herself so as not to disturb him. They continue on in near silence for some time, passing fields of green wheat rippling like the wind on the sea, easy rolling waves across her memory, flowing out into the world around her. Flocks of sheep dot the hills like sea birds in the shadows of the White Towers overlooking the Havens. If she closes her eyes she can almost believe she's there, walking the road down to the gulf, a salty breeze brushing her face and her darling Bilbo skipping beside her all those years ago.

"That's a cheerful ditty you're humming," Bofur says. Bella's eyes flutter open and she turns to see him smiling at her. "Is it a hobbit song?"

"Not really," She answers and blushes before admitting, "I wrote it myself. I used to sing it for my son when he was a faunt."

"You have a son?"

"Yes, he-" Blinking, she stops and gasps. "Ohhhhh! He's going to be so jealous!" She holds her belly and laughs. "I should think he'll never forgive me."

"What, why?"

"He's wanted to meet a dwarf since he was a wee lad." She explains, grinning. "And now he's missed his chance – off to visit Frogmorton with his father."

"Sounds like he takes after you." Bofur comments with a cheeky grin.

"He does, actually – oh!" Bella darts back a few paces and points down a winding foot path. "Nearly missed our turn. Not far now, it's just the other side of this grove."

Bella moves briskly along the familiar track, Bofur following at her heels, soon they round the bend and Donna's little smial comes into view.

* * *

.

* * *

End Chapter Notes:

To be continued in Part 2, which will hopefully be posted in a few days. :)

I wrote most of this chapter while listening to music from the soundtracks of Brave and How to Train Your Dragon. The song Belladonna is singing is Touch the Sky from Brave. Listening to it, I couldn't help but think it really suited her and that it summed up her spirit and character nicely. I can easily imagine that Bilbo grew up hearing it in the background as he played.

Translation Notes:

Words marked by a (*) were created by me using existing words from The Dwarrow Scholar's dictionary because no canon word existed that would suit my purpose.

Khazad'dûm – Moria (lit. Dwarf excavations/halls/mansions)

Moria – Is the elves' name for the first kingdom of Durin. In Sindarin (one of the elvish languages) it translates as: mor – black/dark, iâ – void/abyss.

Balrog – A monster of fire and shadow. In Sindarin it translates as Demon of Might (lit. bal – power, raug/rog – demon).

Sakhabâl* – watchman (lit. looker/person who looks – there was no word for 'to watch', and I wanted something different from a guard.)

Âfdurin* – in short: Durin's month, the seventh month of the dwarven calender. (Ok, so the long of it is: the Dwarrow Scholar's dictionary lists the dwarven calender as having 13 months, but only months 1-6 and 8-13 have names listed. So I figured, what would the dwarves of Erebor name their seventh month? – well surely they'd name it for Durin, their patriarch and one of the original seven dwarf kings made by Mahal. As for what time of year this would be: the Tolkien Gateway says that Durin's Day is the first day in their calender. Some enterprising geek calculated that the Durin's Day mentioned in The Hobbit would have occurred on October the 22nd and so the first month of the Dwarvish calender would begin around the end of October. Every month having 28 days – except for the 7th which has 29 to round out the year – this would land Âfdurin in mid-spring, beginning about the second week of April. Was this far more information than you were at all interested in hearing? Excellent. You're welcome!)

Vustmâhâl* – Healer (lit. person who creates health)

Yadi, Lomi, khajimzu Idad* mim âzyung. – Here, Lomi, give your uncle a little love. (Idad is lit. lesser father)

Bo-Ida' – Uncle Bofur (Lomi is the dwarf equivalent of a toddler so she's still learning to talk).

Dharg – troll

Irkatguchir* – supervisor of a mining crew (lit. mine-shaft master)

Ma blugi zurmmuzmnutû. – Not eating squirrels.

Zokhosâl – Instructor

Cirth – the runes dwarves use when writing Khuzdul

Bifur-Idad – Uncle Bifur

Amad – mother

Muhudel – blessing of blessings

Aach! – Ouch!

Mâhizu yothurur kalat – You're making a lot of noise.

Yadi khidu, rûmzhâshnikuduh! – Here now, that's my pack!

Ganagi ya! – I'm going too!

Faunt – a hobbit child

Smial – a hobbit-hole


	4. Remarkable Daughters: Part 2

The second half of chapter 3. Enter Belladonna's sisters!

Happy Valentines Day!

Instead of chocolates and roses, I give you sassy hobbit ladies being awesome. :)

Bit of a Warning: Bifur's mental illness is discussed in more detail in this chapter. For those who have had to live with mental illness (and how other people react and treat them because of it) this part of the chapter may bring up unpleasant memories. The discussion is fairly mellow (not sure that's really the right word but...) and I didn't find it triggering to write but I thought I'd give a heads up for everyone else.

* * *

**Remarkable Daughters**

**Part 2**

* * *

Bofur has seen a fair few hobbit-holes in the past two days and feels he has a reasonable grasp of what they're all about by this point. The home of Belladonna's sister is both the most and the least hobbity of holes he's seen so far. Carved into the hillside like all the others, its round door is painted a striking violet he's yet to see anywhere else, with a garden out front. All hobbit gardens seem a little wild, in a refined sort of way, but this garden is positively exploding at the seems. Flowers and herbs and trailing vines tangle in and around each other, overtaking the fence and pouring out like an advancing army. The whole hobbit-hole is smothered in them, even the eaves – where hobbits seem to favor thick, green grass – is blanketed in the stuff. Bees and butterflies flit about the flowers like jeweled clouds, wings flashing in the light of the setting sun.

They don't have to open the gate as they continue up the front walk, it buckled under the tide of foliage long ago. As they approach the door Bofur notices that, carved into the wood just above the central door knocker, there's the image of a snake coiled in a spiral, its forked tongue sticking out as though testing the air.

"You're sure she won't mind?" He asks, giving the decoration a nervous glance.

"Absolutely!" Belladonna chirps. She stops on the front step, straightens the wrinkles from her bodice and pats her dark hair. Taking a deep breath and letting it out again she knocks thrice on the door.

It's thrown open almost immediately by a hobbit lass in teal skirts and a light green bodice embroidered with yellow daisies. A frilly little apron does nothing to save her outfit from patches of flour and spice.

"Bella, you goose!" She chastises, chestnut curls bouncing around her shoulders as she shakes her head in exasperation. "You were supposed to be here an hour ago. Donna's in a right tizzy – you _know_ how she gets and – oh! Who's this?" Curious blue eyes turn Bofur's way, looking him up and down. As he's scrutinized Bofur notices that the lass shares his companion's high cheekbones and pointed chin, though she looks younger around the eyes.

"You must be Belladonna's sister?" Bofur hazards a guess.

"The youngest, yes." Belladonna says rolling her eyes and shoos her sister out of her way. "Mira, this is Bofur of the Blue Mountains. Bofur, my sister Mirabella Brandybuck of Newbury." She concludes her hasty introduction by pulling Bofur in by his lapels and closing the door behind them. She turns to her sister and huffs. "What on earth are you doing all the way out here?"

Mira gives her sister a long, blank look and then turns, stomping off down the hall and around a corner. "Donna! You owe me a strawberry tart – Bella forgot... a_gain!" _

"Oh, bother..." Belladonna mutters under her breath. Snatching a horsehair brush off the wall she leans down to dust off the soles of her feet. Bofur doesn't need to be told, one look at the gleaming wood floors is enough. He drops his pack on a handy bench and bends over to begin pulling off his boots.

The inside of a hobbit-hole is nothing like what he expected.

There's no sign of the earth and soil that surround them. The walls and ceiling are covered in spotless white plaster, smooth and free of any hint of a stone foundation. Polished wood beams run the length of the hall and border every archway and window. Everything flows in gentle curves. Bofur knows there must be little mirrors hidden somewhere, no space built underground could be so bright and sunny without them, and yet, he can find no sign of them. The whole place is soft and cozy, though not as open as dwarven halls, it's in no way confining.

"Let's go see what trouble I've gotten into this time, shall we?" Belladonna says cheerfully and leads him down the hall after her sister. They pass through a round archway and into what looks like a little sitting room. Cushy chairs and footstools upholstered in floral fabrics circle the hearth where a little fire burns bright. The walls are covered in watercolors of landscapes and colorful birds pictured mid-flight.

At the other end of the room is another archway leading into a room floored with tile and stocked with pots and jars and odd looking vessels blown from glass. Confused mutterings drift in with the scent of home cooking from around the corner.

Belladonna puts her hands on her hips and clears her throat.

Another hobbit marches into the room with Mira in her wake. She resembles the two sisters quite strongly, though her hair is longer and less curly and her skirts are a dusky mauve, rather plain compared to Belladonna's ruby red and Mira's delicate needlework. She stops in front of them, arms crossed and pulls herself up. Staring Belladonna in the eye she positively quivers with indignant reproach.

Belladonna clasps her hands under her chin and smiles, batting her eyelashes.

The other hobbit – Donna, Bofur is beginning to suspect – turns her glare on Bofur, he fights the urge to hide his sticky, dust covered hands behind his back. Her eyes flick down to his feet.

"Your stockings don't match, young man." She sniffs.

"Are they supposed to?" He asks, looking down and wiggling his toes.

Belladonna snickers as her sister takes her by the elbow and begins pulling her away with a huff. "Can you believe I'm the eldest?" She tosses over her shoulder as she's drug from the room, leaving Bofur and Mira behind.

They exchange awkward glances.

"_Sweet Yavanna, Bell, there's a dwarf in my parlor!_" Drifts around the corner.

"Lovely weather we're having, isn't it?" Mira says, rather desperately. The fingers of one hand fiddle restlessly at a thin silver chain circling her throat. The links are delicate and perfectly round.

"That's very fine workmanship." Bofur says, hoping to ease the tension.

"I'm sorry?" Mira asks, hand going still.

"Your necklace," Bofur clarifies.

"Oh!" She gasps and holds it up, draped across the back of her hand, so it catches the light. A solitary, iridescent drop of pale gold hangs at the end. "I – thank you! It was a gift from Bella, she found the pearl in the Grey Havens on one of her little adventures."

"_That's_ a pearl?" Bofur rushes to her side and leans down to examine it more closely. Sunlight dances across its surface like a fine mist. "A gem from the sea! I never thought I'd see one in my whole life," he says in awe, tipping his head this way and that, eager to see the pretty bobble from all angles, "they're practically legends back in Erebor, most folk don't even believe they exist!"

"You don't say?" Comes Mira's strangled reply. Bofur looks up at her strained expression and jumps back, embarrassed.

"Achrâchi gabilul." He says and bows. "I've made you uncomfortable."

"Well, I-" She's cut off by an outburst from the kitchen.

"_A peach! That's it?"_ Donna sounds outraged, as though personally offended by Bofur and Belladonna's choice of mid-day meal.

"I had a potato for breakfast." Bofur calls, feeling that he should contribute somehow.

Mira stares at him, aghast.

A high, nasally noise comes from the kitchen, as though some small, furry creature is choking on its own tongue. It's followed by busy footsteps and the bang of cabinetry being thrown open.

"_Mira!"_ Donna calls like a battle cry. "Get our guest settled!"

Bofur finds himself propelled across the parlor and through another archway into a room dominated by a long oak table. He attempts to regain control of his movement but finds himself sliding along the floor, stockings slipping over the polished wood and six stone of hobbit lass digging into his back.

"Don't make this hard on yourself, Mister Bofur." She grunts, giving him one last shove and sending him toppling into a lovely little chair carved with vines of ivy. "My but you're hale for a starving man."

"I'm not starving!" Bofur protests as his hat is plucked from his head. "I'm hungry, yes, but-"

"Don't be foolish, you silly man!" Donna barks, coming around the corner and advancing along the table like a soldier on parade. She puts a mince pie down in front of him. It's as big around as his head and has a fork sticking up out of the middle. "You snack on that while we finish making supper and then we'll see about getting you properly fed up." She nods to herself, satisfied, and then marches back towards the kitchen.

Bofur lifts the fork out of the pastry and stares at it in amazement. It's plated in silver.

"There now," Mira chirps, tucking a napkin under Bofur's chin, "no need to be flustered, we're all friends here." She pats him on the head and takes off after her sister. Belladonna, having watched the whole thing unfold from the doorway, buries her face in her arms and laughs so hard she snorts.

Over the next half hour there's a great deal of productivity in the kitchen. Bofur can smell fresh bread cooling and can hear the sizzle of fish being fried in butter. As he eats his way steadily through his pie (with a sweet, juicy filling and flaky crust it's one of the most delicious things he's eaten in years) the three sisters dart in and out of the dining room, covering the table with plates and bowls of food. There's mounds of spring salad, looking like smaller versions of the Shire hills, baskets of crusty bread and pats of golden butter melting in the candlelight. Bowls of roasted potatoes dusted with herbs, and asparagus cooked with garlic and lemongrass are next, followed by sliced tomatoes and eggplant covered in bubbling cheese. Pride of place goes to a platter piled high with steaming trout, their skins nice and crispy.

Bofur gapes as the sisters come in with their last additions, a pitcher of elderberry cordial and several glasses, and take their seats. He hasn't seen a meal this size since Lomi's naming day.

"Do you always eat like this?" The words fall out of his mouth before he can stop them. He snaps his mouth shut with an audible click and ducks his head.

"Usually," Belladonna remarks, taking what's left of the mince pie and replacing it with a clean plate. Mira serves him two whole fish and then sets to work piling on potatoes and smothering them in mushroom gravy.

"I'm afraid you've caught us by surprise, Mister Bofur." Donna says, pouring cordial into glasses and passing them around the table. Her voice is much warmer now that she's not running about. "I was expecting a quiet evening in with my sisters, I'm usually a much better hostess."

"Speaking of..." Mira gives Belladonna a pointed look from over a basket of bread.

"What? Oh, right!" Belladonna looks up and waves her hands to either side. "Donna, Bofur of the Blue Mountains. Bofur, my sister Donnamira Boffin of Waymeet." She says then stuffs a slice of buttered bread in her mouth. Donna rolls her eyes heavenward.

"Belladonna... Donnamira... and Mirabella..." Bofur recites, looking to each of the hobbit ladies in turn.

"It's a good thing there wasn't a fourth, really," Belladonna says, mouth half full as she winks. "Papa wouldn't have known what to call her!"

"Your mother let him name you?" Bofur asks, surprised.

"Well, certainly. _Honestly_ Bella, swallow before you speak." Donna answers, patting daintily at her lips with a napkin. "Papa took a great joy in it and Mama always used pet names for the whole lot of us anyway. She didn't much care what he chose..."

"Do dwarf fathers not name their children?" Mira cuts in, serving herself a large portion of asparagus, briefly considers, then plops a few spears on top of Bofur's plate. His meal is growing faster than he can eat it.

"Only their sons," Bofur says, he imagines what Loti would have had to say if Bombur had tried to butt in on Lomi's naming and laughs. "No dwarrowdam would let her _husband_ name her daughter!"

"Really?" Mira leans in, eyes wide with curiosity. "Is she not considered his?"

"What? Of course she is!" Bofur sputters. "It's just... dwarrows name sons and 'dams name daughters. That's just the way it is."

"Let our guest eat his supper, Mira, really." Donna interjects, giving Bofur a nod and turning towards Belladonna. "Anyway, it's dearest Bella's turn to answer some questions."

Belladonna groans over her salad. "Yes, it's our Spring Get-Together. I'm sorry I forgot, I was thinking on other things!"

"Like what reason you'd have to send Bungo and Billy-Bo-Button off to Frogmorton without you?" Mira says, smiling innocently as she sips at her drink.

"I do believe he asked you to stop calling him that." Belladonna retorts.

"What he doesn't know can't hurt him." Mira answers in a teasing song.

Donna meets Bofur's eyes across the table. "My family is a menace." She says with a straight face.

The conversation continues on in that vein for the rest of the meal, light teasing and familiar disagreements dropping in like old friends. Bofur tries to eat everything he's given but the sisters seem to think he's an empty sack rather than a dwarf as they just keep giving him more. By the time supper is finished he feels as big around as his brother and about ready to explode. The hobbit ladies shoo away his efforts to help clear the table and so he sits and digests as the empty dishes are carted off. Eventually they return with dainty bowls of blueberries and clotted cream.

"I'm sure I can't eat another bite." Bofur says, sliding down in his chair.

"More for me, then." Belladonna replies and snatches up his bowl eagerly.

"You poor dear." Mira says, patting his hand. "You must have been going on very little for a long while to be so tuckered out."

"Not really," Bofur gives her a smile for her concern. "I've just never eaten this much in me life."

Donna and Mira stop with their spoons half way to their mouths. Belladonna finishes off her own bowl and starts in on Bofur's.

"_No!"_ Donna blurts, her eyes round as saucers.

"Well he _is_ a dwarf," Belladonna says as if it should be obvious. "They don't eat as much as we do."

"But they're bigger than us!" Mira exclaims.

"So are the Big Folk and they eat less than us." Belladonna eyes Donna's blueberries, makes a route around the sugar bowl and swoops in.

Donna deflects her sister's spoon with ease. "I'm convinced they filter something out of the air. Or they've got some kind of second stomach that mashes everything up again." She says, relishing her last bite of dessert. "Like cows."

Bofur tries to keep from laughing but it's really no use. He's nice and warm, full of good food and surrounded by the most ridiculous and lovely people he's had the pleasure to meet in a good long while. So he fills the room with great bursting guffaws that soon have the sisters laughing as well, high and cheerful like little song birds.

"So, then," Donna says when things quiet down again, "Bella tells me you came all the way here for medicine. Things must be rather serious for you to seek aid from the Shire." She leans forward and folds her hands under her chin, regarding him with somber eyes. "Tell me what the ailment is and I'll see what I can do to help."

"Just like that?" Bofur asks, amazed by her casual generosity.

"Of course!" Mira says, sweeping her curls over her shoulder she continues, having mistaken his meaning. "Donna's the most gifted healer in the four Farthings!"

"She's remarkable, even." Belladonna adds, a touch sarcastically.

"Let him speak." Donna cuts them both off with finality.

Bofur finds himself at the center of their attention, three sets of eyes watching him patiently as he gathers his thoughts. "Well... it's my cousin, Bifur, you see. We had a very bad winter coming up on two decades ago-"

"The Fell Winter." Mira whispers and shivers with long remembered dread.

Donna waves her hand for Bofur to continue.

"There're goblins and orcs to the north of us and a few to the south, you see, always have been. They come down sometimes on raids, nothin' big usually." Bofur turns his gaze inward, looking over memories of snow and ice painted red. "But that year the winter went on so long we were half starved and so were they, only there's more of them than us. It was like every last one came out o' the mountains, hackin' at anything to fill their bellies."

The shadows seem to get longer as he continues, the light from the candles flicking in the heavy air.

"We retreated to the mines, the whole colony all crowded in together. If we coulda blocked the entrance things wouldn't have got so bad but we hadn't dug far enough yet. Wasn't no back way out then, and not enough air-shafts to keep so many people breathin' fresh air if we did." Bofur runs his fingers along one braid recalling the dark chill of the tunnels growing humid with shared body heat, with shared breath. And the constant threat of the seeping damp... "Couldn't even light candles to see by..."

"What happened to your cousin?" Donna prompts, voice soft and low.

"Bif volunteered to guard the entrance. I wanted to go with him but the Prince wanted me to stay and keep all the little 'uns entertained... I've always been good at entertainin'." He takes a deep breath and continues, ignoring the way his eyes sting at the memory. "Lots went to fight and lots died doing it. Bif was lucky really. He got an ax stuck in his head but he lived, though none can figure how, not even Vustmâhâl Thivi."

"Hmmmm..." Donna hums in consideration, leaning back in her chair. "The axehead is still embedded, is it?"

"Yes." Bofur replies.

"And the wound has healed, no lingering infection?" She asks.

"That's right." He says.

"You're not looking to get it out again, are you?" Donna narrows her eyes at him.

"No!" Bofur blurts, he winces at his outburst. "No, Vustmâhâl Thivi says it'd kill 'im if we tried."

Donna nods. "And you listened, that's good." She gets up and starts to pace around the table, hands folded behind her back. "What sort of help are you looking for then?"

"Well..." Bofur hesitates recalling Thivi's irritation at Bofur and his family's persistence on the matter. But this is Belladonna's sister he's talking to. He can trust Belladonna, the hobbit lass who came out of the sky like sudden lightening, a grin splitting her face and her eyes luminous with joy. He can trust her and so he can trust her kin. "He was doin' all right for a while, but he's never really been the same since it happened and lately he's been gettin' worse."

Donna makes a thoughtful noise, as if none of this surprises her. It doesn't seem to have bothered Belladonna or Mira either, they've sat through the whole thing quietly, hardly moving. "What are this Thivi's thoughts on your cousin's condition, he's your healer, yes? What has he been treating him with?"

Bofur's mouth falls open, Donna quirks an eyebrow at him. He shrugs helplessly. "He hasn't."

She makes a rolling motion with her hand, prompting him to continue. "He hasn't...?"

"Been treatin' Bif."

Donna stares at him for a moment, then takes a breath and leaves the room. Belladonna and Mira lean over in their seats as they watch her go.

"Did I-"

"Shhh!" Belladonna says, covering his mouth with a finger.

From the parlor there comes a sound rather like a lady screaming into a pillow.

"I'll just get the brandy-wine, then." Mira says, getting up and heading into the kitchen. "Before she goes for something stronger."

Donna returns in a flurry of skirts, a little red in the face, and returns to her pacing, much faster this time. She turns to Bofur and lets out a gust of breath. "Right, we'll start at the beginning. Tell me everything, what are his symptoms, any unusual reactions – this would be _so_ much easier if I could speak with your cousin myself. Can he come to the Shire?" She says all in a rush. She shakes her head and tisks at her own question. "No of course he can't, or you would have brought him. Fine! Give me an overview, whatever you think is the most important."

"Er, well, he gets confused sometimes," Bofur starts, watching as Mira brings in a decanter of dark amber colored liquid and several small glasses from the kitchen and sets them on the table. Donna pours herself a generous amount. "He'll think he's somewhere he's not, or that he needs to talk to someone he's never met. He gets agitated easily."

"The issue is mental then," Donna says, tapping her fingers against her chin and she thinks. "What sorts of things bother him?"

"Hard to say sometimes," Bofur says, accepting a glass of the brandy drink from Belladonna. He takes a small sip. The burn as it goes down is familiar but it tastes like a drunken bowl of fruit decided to get up and punch him in the face. He takes another gulp anyway. "One day it's a sudden noise, other days because it's too quiet. Things scare him tha' didn't used to, storms and creepy-crawlies and such. He doesn't trust anyone outside the family now." He waves his arm back towards the front door where he left his pack. "That's his kit I'm usin'. He likes to hide it 'round the house and take off on his own. He never makes it far but that doesn't stop him from tryin'."

"What was his life like before the raids?" Donna asks, sitting back down at the table taking a hearty swig from her glass.

"Like the life o' any miner," Bofur says, then elaborates at the blank look he gets. "He dug through stone for coal and iron ore, bunked with me in the miner's hall, went out to the pub when we had extra coin. Visited with Bombur, er – my brother, and his family when we could."

"And what's changed since?" Donna asks.

"Well... he's got an ax stickin' out o' his forehead." Bofur hazards.

Donna flaps her hands in front of her face as though beset by a swarm of gnats. "No, no, no! Forget the ax, how has his daily _life_ changed?"

"Oh, ah – we got a place outside o' the settlement now, to keep him away from others like Thivi said." Bofur stops speaking as Donna chugs her brandy like the lone survivor of a goblin raid come home to drown their guilt. Belladonna smiles encouragingly and motions for him to continue. "Er... he can't speak Westron anymore and he can't work in the mines so he stays around the house mostly... um..."

"Wrong, wrong, wrong!" Donna laments as she bangs her head against the table. "Why do they always do exactly the wrong thing?"

"I'm sorry?" Bofur asks, rather worried by this point.

"Don't be," Belladonna says, patting her sister's back and smiling over at him. "She always gets a little theatrical when she drinks."

Mira hums her agreement, checking the level of Donna's glass with a critical eye.

"This Thivi _fellow_ is a fobbing, beetle-headed pumpion!" Donna snarls and reaches for her glass. Mira very diplomatically removes it from temptation by downing the rest herself.

"What did that all mean?" Bofur asks Belladonna as her sisters squabble over the decanter.

"From Hobbitish to Dwarvish?" Belladonna remarks as she steals all the glasses and hides them in her skirts. "It means she thinks he's a right tonker."

"Here now!" Bofur cries, put out. "Vustmâhâl Thivi saved Bifur's life!"

"Only to snatch it right out of his hands again!" Donna rejoins, giving up on the brandy. She reaches across the table and snatches up Bofur's hands, holding them between her own. "Your cousin isn't a pariah, Mister Bofur, he got hurt and now his mind doesn't work like it used to. But he's getting punishment instead of healing. He needed normalcy more than anything else but what he's gotten is a whole different life, one that's not his!"

It's like a hot lump of tar has settled in Bofur's chest, sticking to his ribs and bowing them inwards. Bifur's discontent had been obvious to everyone but it had always seemed to stem from the ax, to Bofur's mind. It had been easy to set the blame there, as though the weapon was some kind of infection sending dark tendrils through Bifur's life. Bofur had never considered that anything else could be the cause, and worse, he'd never thought to _ask_.

The family has been like blackdamp in the tunnels of Bifur's mind, slowly and silently suffocating, with none to hear the canary's song fade and die.

"What do we do?" Bofur whispers.

"He needs to contribute to the family again, rejoin the community." Donna says, decisively.

"He can't go back to the mines," Bofur says, shaking his head. "No Irkatguchir will have Bif in their crew."

"Sod them!" Donna declares, "It's for the best anyway. Sunlight and fresh air will do him good once he's busy again. What else can he do for work, does he have any hobbies?"

Bofur stops to consider. The children's toy-box comes to mind, half full of little wooden creations carved with a careful hand. "He likes to carve wood, he's always making things for my niece and nephews."

"There you are then!" Donna says, releasing Bofur's hands and rising from her seat. "That's a good place to start. Children always need toys, he could have his own shop!" She disappears into the kitchen with a flourish. "Mira, come help me with these herbs – and find some parchment somewhere, will you?"

"Coming, Donna."

Bofur and Belladonna are left alone at the table for a few minutes, listening to the sounds of jars being opened and the rustle of dried plants being poured out. Bofur lifts a hand to rub at his eyes. A light weight settles on his shoulder.

"Don't dwell on past mistakes, Mister Bofur, focus on the future instead." Belladonna says and kisses his temple. "You're a good dwarf who loves his family. You'll do fine."

He blinks at her, stunned. Before he can think of anything to say Donna and Mira are on their way back in, carrying several small bundles, an undersized ale cask and a sheet of parchment. The items are spread out on the table in front of him. Mira hands him the parchment and Bofur looks it over as he takes it. It appears to be some kind of list but even if Bofur were better with letters he still wouldn't be able to read it. The writing is all curvy and round with little dots speckled throughout, nothing like the tidy lines and sharp angles of Cirth.

"That's my own recipes on there, so don't you lose it." Donna remarks, shaking her finger at him. Bofur puts it down on the table and smooths it flat. Donna opens each of the bundles in turn, loosening the ties and pulling the cloth apart to show him their contents. "This is for tea, a cuppa in the morning and another at night. It's chamomile and hops mainly, but they're all in the recipe so when you run out of this you'll know exactly what to get. There's willow bark for pain, only as _needed_, mind," She says putting it off to the side with special care. "These last two are valerian and lemon-balm, which will help him sleep if he's having difficulties."

"Er... right." Bofur says trying to remember everything. He reminds himself that the boys will have been learning Westron letters while he's been away. He's not completely lost in the deeps yet. "What's the tea do?"

"It's my own special blend," Donna says with no little pride. Taking the bundles of herbs, she tucks them into a cotton bag and ties it securely with twine. "You mentioned your cousin gets agitated and frightened easily, this will help. Very good for anxiety and stress, this is. He'll need to drink it every day for a couple of weeks before he really starts to notice a difference but give it time and it'll make things just that little bit easier for him."

Bofur nods. It shouldn't be hard to get Bifur to try the stuff, he's taken a special liking to flowers lately. Bif might even be enamored enough with the idea to overlook the smell. Bofur's gaze turns to the cask. It sits in the middle of the table, seemingly ignored. Curious, Bofur points to it. "An' what's in that?"

"This," Donna says, laying a careful hand on the little barrel, "Is a very special variety of pipe-weed called Southern Star. Keep it in a cool, dark place well away from children," She continues very seriously, "it's for emergencies only. When he's having a really hard day."

"What does it do?" Bofur asks. He's always thought of smoking leaf as something to do to pass the time. He's a bit loath to find it's apparently more than just a sweet smelling herb.

"Well, it'll calm him right down." Crossing her arms over her chest, Donna puts special emphasis on her next words. "But it can leave people feeling floaty and out of sorts, so Bifur's to be the one to say when he wants to use it, clear?" She asks, staring Bofur down, unblinkingly.

"Yes, very clear!" He assures her, holding his hands up in surrender.

"Excellent," Donna nods and passes the bag of herbs to Mira. She picks up the small barrel herself and begins making her way around the table. "We'll just put these with your things and then get you settled in."

"Settled in?" Bofur asks, blinking at them owlishly.

"It's getting late and you've got a long way to go in the morning." Belladonna says, reaching for the parchment under Bofur's hand and folding it up into a neat little square. She hands it to Mira who tucks it in with her bundle. "You'll be wanting plenty of rest."

Bofur jumps up and looks into the parlor and out its little round windows. The sunlight is nearly gone. He rushes after Donna and Mira, Belladonna on his heels.

"That's a mighty fine offer," Bofur says as he comes around the corner, "but there's still enough light to travel a fair way, there's no reason to go to the trouble."

"It's no trouble." Donna says, quirking an eyebrow at him having tucked the cask in next to his pack.

"I really couldn't-" Bofur tries again, reaching for his boots. Mira blocks his path.

"Why-ever not?" She asks, hands on her hips. "You can't expect us to let you wander off into the night!"

"It's just, you've been so kind to me already." Bofur says, cheeks flushing as he examines his threadbare stockings. He looks up at them, blinking back tears. "You're remarkable ladies, you really are."

"Oh no!" Belladonna groans, burying her face in her hands. "Not you too."

"What did I say?" Bofur asks as Donna rolls her eyes.

"That's what the whole Shire calls us, the Remarkable Daughters of the Old Took." Mira says winking. "It drives Bella _mad_."

Curious, Bofur turns towards her and away from Bella's scowling face. "Why do they call you that?"

"Well, me for my medicines, Mira for her art – that's her work in the parlor," Donna says, waving her hand back down the hall. Mira beams with pride. "And Bella for her less than respectable habit of going off on madcap exploits to parts unknown."

"They aren't _unknown_," Belladonna protests, "they've got _roads,_ you know."

"The most remarkable thing about us, they say," Mira remarks as she takes Bofur's arm and leads him down the hall, deeper into the hobbit-hole, leaving Bella and Donna behind to trade quips, "is that we didn't all end up like Bella!"

* * *

"Now remember," Donna natters on as Bella helps Bofur tie the cask of leaf to the bottom of his pack. "Follow the road up past The Pines and then west along the Bywater Road and continue on from there all the way up to Gamwich. The bounds aren't far after that and you'll be on your way."

"Hobbiton, The Pines, Bywater..." Bofur mumbles stomping his feet into his boots and grinning up at them, eyes crinkling in mirth. "I'm beginning to see a pattern here."

"You shouldn't judge our naming conventions from such a small sampling, Master Dwarf," Bella says impishly, playing along. "You haven't even been to Woody End, or Greenfields or The Hill, much less _Overhill_ yet! We've got so much more to offer in overtly blatant nomenclature."

"Are you sure you can't stay for second breakfast?" Donna asks, ignoring their little repartee.

"It's a fine offer, but I just can't be staying any longer, I – _ooph!"_ Bofur's breath comes out in a burst as he hefts his pack onto his shoulders, under balances and topples back against the wall. Bella slaps a hand up over her eyes.

"Mira..." She says, exasperated. "When I said to pack up a few previsions..."

"But it is only a few!" Mira protests, eyes wide. She continues, ticking items off on her fingers. "A loaf of bread, a wheel of cheese, some salt pork, crab apples, mixed nuts, a handful of fruit preserves-"

"Fruit preserves?" Bella turns to her sister, hands on her hips. "He's got a two week journey ahead! What's he going to do with a bunch of jars weighting him down?"

Mira shrugs under Bella's gaze, half sheepish and half determined. "I thought it would be a nice treat."

Bella rolls her eyes.

"It's not so bad," Bella turns to see Bofur pushing himself upright. He plants his feet and boosts his pack further up his back. "I just wasn't expectin' the extra weight, is all."

Mira smiles and gives Bella a superior look. Bella sighs and moves towards the front door, resigned. She opens it and steps out into the morning chill, Bofur followers her out onto the front step and turns back towards Bella's sisters. They stand in the doorway shading their faces against the early sun, blinking overly bright eyes.

"You're _sure_ about second breakfast?" Donna asks one last time.

Bofur laughs. "I'm still stuffed from the first one!"

"Oh, do be careful," Mira pounces, wrapping the dwarf up in a hug long perfected on unsuspecting nieces and nephews. "The wilds outside the bounds are no place for decent folk!"

"Oh, honestly..." Bella snorts as she helps Donna pry their younger sister's arms from around Bofur's neck. She comes away reluctantly, dabbing at her eyes with a lace hanky.

"Just remember everything I've told you about the tea and pipe weed and such," Donna says, shooing Mira off to the side and giving Bofur a few light pats on the cheek. "And give our love to your family, especially the wee darlings."

"O' course." Bofur replies, looking a little flummoxed by all the affection.

"All right, then," Bella cuts in, taking Bofur by the arm and getting him turned around. "Let's get you through to Waymeet and on the right road, shall we?" She leads them through the garden and down the little path. Glancing back over her shoulder she can see her sisters waving them along until she and Bofur round the little copse of trees and head up the hill.

Back on the Waymeet Track, Bella turns and gives Bofur a cheeky smirk.

"They've taken quite the shine to you!"

"Aye," Bofur replies, scratching under his hat. "Don't know what I did to deserve it." He shakes his head, brows furrowed in thought. "Your sister wouldn't even let me pay her for the medicine!"

Bella laughs, recalling the pinched look of outrage on Donna's face when Bofur had asked what he owed her. "She won't take payment for something like that, not when she thinks someone's been maltreated by another healer."

The track opens up into the town of Waymeet, smials boarding the road until it reaches the center green. Even at this early hour there are folk out and about, doing chores and getting their day started. Some notice the odd pair and watch them pass, expressions closed off.

"I don't like to think that Thivi did us wrong." Bofur says, lowly.

"But you were already thinking it," Bella points out, giving him a firm look when Bofur opens his mouth to protest. "You _were_, or you wouldn't have come all the way to the Shire to ask for help."

Bofur sighs, shaking his head. "I was just hopin' you'd have something he didn't."

"Common sense, Donna would say." Bella comments as they cross the green and angle right towards the pine road. "Compassion might be a better word." They pass the last few smials on their way out of the village. In the garden of one a mother herds her children back towards the door, throwing an indignant glare over her shoulder and muttering about borrowing trouble, she closes the door with a firm hand. "It's often in short supply when folk are confronted with anything... peculiar."

Beams of sunlight come down through the clouds, warming their skin as they continue on into the fields. They're well onto the road now and there's little chance of Bofur losing his way, but Bella finds herself reluctant to part ways just yet and so they walk on, intrepid hobbit and humble dwarf side by side. Bella finds it comforting in a way she doesn't quite wish to examine.

"You must be very lonely." Bofur says all of the sudden, startling her rather badly.

She turns to regard him with wide eyes.

"We've always thought, dwarves that is, that hobbits are very cut off from the world – that you wanted it that way," Bofur says, shrugging. "But here you are and from what your sisters say, you've been all kinds of places. You say hobbits are scared of water, 'cept you aren't." Bofur gestures back the way they've come, towards Waymeet and further on towards Hobbiton. "Hobbits don't seem much for anyone or anything unexpected – 'cept you seemed thrilled by it. I don't expect many hobbits run off with wizards either, or care to know any." He smiles at her, eyes crinkling and warm. "Just seems like you don't quite fit here, lovely as it is."

Bella turns to face down along the road and blinks rapidly. There's a lump in her throat that she can't quite seem to swallow.

"I didn't mean to upset yeh." Bofur whispers.

"No, it's not that. You didn't, honestly." She insists but accepts the cloth he offers and dabs at her eyes all the same. "It's just – you're right," She can picture their faces, all the folk she's passed with her bag and traveling cloak draped over her shoulders. It's not the glowering faces or those with noses and mouths scrunched up in distaste, that bother her the most. It's the ones who watched her pass, expressions uncomprehending and incredulous that upset her. Looking as though the very idea of setting foot beyond the gentle hills of the Shire were unthinkable. "I love the Shire, I do! But it's just so small,so very _confining_, and I haven't really left in such a long time, it seems..."

"My family were some o' the first to leave Erebor for the west," Bofur offers up as Bella's words run out. He looks up at the sky, eyes misty. "I was only a dozen years past my majority, my brother Bombur had just got married and the King, he says – Go west, dig for iron and coal and prosper!" He waves his hands in grand gestures about his head, nose stuck in the air and face pinched in imagined nobility. "An' we thought, by Durin's beard, why not? We were poor as dirt and our parents thought we could do well for ourselves, move up in the world. So we left." Bofur says, shrugging. "It was grand at first, a right adventure, exploring a new mountain and digging new mines. But it creeps up on you, doesn't it? That sort of longing deep in yer bones. Been out here five odd decades, Bombur and Loti have the little 'uns now and we buried our parents in the stone. And yet..."

Bofur turns to look at her and she sees something of herself reflected in his eyes. "We don't really fit there, even before Bifur's trouble, though I can't say why. The mountains climb high and the tunnels run deep but nothing seems quite right, I don't know how to explain it..."

"Your soul isn't there." Bella murmurs, with utter certainty. "Mine isn't here either." Even now she feels a twinge of guilt admitting it. "My heart is, certainly. My family is extensive and loving and I adore my husband and son, but my soul is a wandering thing and can't be contained."

They've come to a stop overlooking the winding expanse of the road as it dips down and away towards the towering giants of The Pines. The great trees dominate the landscape, one of the few remnants of the old forests that used to cover the farthings before the founding of Arnor. When the Shire was wild and untamed and long before any hobbit had even seen the Brandywine, much less crossed it. How Bella wishes she could have seen it.

"You should visit." Bofur says, the cheer back in his voice. "If you ever make it up, just ask after my brother, he's a Thakmâhguchir so anyone would know how to find him."

"A Thackemahgucher, you say," Bella smirks, "sounds important."

"Yes, he – er, hrmmm..." Bofur makes a low note of discontent and squints at her, at a loss for how to continue.

Bella laughs. "You dwarves and your secret language – oh!" She snaps her fingers, recalling a thought that had nagged at her the night before. "The recipes Donna wrote out, is there anyone who can read them for you?"

Bofur blushes and stammers, looking down at his feet. Bella lays a hand on his shoulder and gives it a light squeeze.

"I never expected you to be able to, Bofur." She says, drawing him in and wrapping her arm around his shoulder. Bofur hesitates then does the same. "Why would you learn to read Westron when you've had no use for it until now?"

"My nephews go for schooling most days," Bofur meets her eyes again and smiles. "Their teacher knows Westron letters, or so they tell me."

"Good!" Bella gives him a quick hug, pulls back then goes in for another. "I'm so glad to have met you Bofur, son of Bôfbur. And of course I'll visit! Just as soon as I'm able."

"I'll hold you to that, Took's daughter," Bofur says and pulls away with a wink. "I'd leave you with a dwarvish parting, but you've no beard to wish longer!"

"May your mustache grow so long you trip over it." Bella says, pulling an expression she's seen on many an old hobbit, self-possessed authority with a side of mild constipation. Bofur laughs and tips his hat. He bids her well and departs with a spring in his step.

She watches him until all she can see is a bare speck on the horizon.

* * *

When Bofur makes it back to Ered Luin the settlement is a mess of activity, dwarves rushing back and forth, some with packs and some with carts, all making their way towards the meeting hall. He stops to ask a passing guard what the commotion is about and gets an earful about some kind of quest to retake Khazad'dum. The colony is overflowing with dwarves coming in from outlying settlements, all wanting to hear the official word on Erebor's plans.

The guard asks him what hole he's been stuck down to not know nothing about anything. Bofur replies simply and honestly, he's been in the Shire.

The guard is equally blunt, wondering what Bofur could possibly want in that mess of elf-eared dirt eaters.

Bofur leaves him whimpering on the ground, clutching his stones.

The other guards loose interest in chasing him by the time Bofur's made it past the shanties and into the woods. He makes good time and reaches home around mid-day. The woodpile is considerably smaller than when he left and the roof has a new layer of bark. He hears laughter from the back garden and makes his way around the house.

Bofur and Lomi sit together under the warm sun. His niece bounces and giggles as squirrels romp and spring along the ground, chasing after shelled nuts as Bifur throws them in the air. Bofur watches them, drinking in the sight, until Lomi gets up to run after the furry critters, sending them diving for the trees. Shucking his pack and coat, Bofur walks over to his cousin and sits beside him, setting his things down to the side.

Bifur looks at him expectantly but Bofur finds he can't quite speak. So he gives his cousin a watery smile and leans their foreheads together. Bifur seems to understand his silence and they stay like that until Lomi notices Bofur's presence and comes over to jump into his arms.

Back in the colony there's likely some kind of ruckus as rumors butt up against the measured words of official edicts. There'll be those who want to wait for the call for volunteers and those who want to get a head start and the mining masters will be all in a tizzy trying to keep things orderly. But Bofur hardly cares. He spends the afternoon out in the fresh air watching his cousin and niece eat their way through a jar of Shire-made raspberry jam with a spoon.

* * *

.

* * *

Next chapter - back to Erebor and Thorin pov!

Translation Notes:

Words marked by a (*) were created by me using existing words from The Dwarrow Scholar's dictionary because no canon word existed that would suit my purpose.

Achrâchi gabilul – a formal apology (lit. it pains me greatly)

Vustmâhâl* – Healer (lit. person who creates health)

Blackdamp – a mixture of gasses common in old coal mines created when exposed coal absorbs oxygen and releases carbon dioxide and water vapor. It has no obvious odor and the symptoms are slow to set in but can escalate rapidly causing mass asphyxiation if early warning signs aren't caught.

Irkatguchir* – supervisor of a mining crew (lit. mine-shaft master)

Thakmâhguchir* – a mine architect (lit. mine, to create, master)


	5. The Clouded Gem

A meeting is held and Thorin receives some advice. In the Shire, a hobbit lass meets a traveling dwarf.

* * *

**The Clouded Gem**

* * *

There is a haze over the Blue Mountains.

It creeps into the mind and seeps into idle musings and into dreams only half remembered come morning. The dwarves of Ered Luin find their eyes turning east when their thoughts wander.

In the summer a side shaft collapses and buries an entire mining crew alive. The colony digs day and night with pickaxe and shovel, erecting new beams and hauling out rubble. When the team is unearthed their faces are gaunt and pale in death, faces turned as one towards the sunrise in the deep dark of the stone.

That is the last year the shipments of coal and iron go out as planned, long lines of wagons stretching into the distance. The shadows of Deadman's Dike watch them pass as they have for decades. Dwarves come, dwarves go back again, trespassers in a land lost to legend.

The following years bring something more interesting.

It starts as a trickle. A few hooded figures here and there, tagging behind the wagons. Then the number grows. A few handfuls, a troop. Sometimes a squadron of guards come after, armor and weapons glinting in the changing light of the seasons. Sometimes they return empty handed, sometimes with travelers in chains. Sometimes they don't return at all.

The shadows watch, their curiosity piqued.

They look east and wonder.

* * *

.

* * *

_("All attend! The annals shall reflect a congress between the Kingdom of Erebor and the ambassadors of the Iron Hills and of the Grey Mountains in the year 2931 of the Third Age on this, the tenth day of Âfizu.")_

Thorin storms from the chamber, not waiting for the other members of the negotiations to finish their parting words. Frustration radiates off him, from the stiff set of his shoulders to the brisk pace he sets through the narrow halls. Servants and attendants scramble from his path, clutching packages and documents close as he stalks past.

He has a headache coming on, which does nothing to improve his mood. Still, Thorin reminds himself as a dwarrowdam trips over her broom in her haste to get out of the prince's way, those who serve should not have to pay for it.

He slows himself to a more sedate pace and schools his features. His thoughts turn inwards.

_("I had thought," Turak runs a casual hand over the steely gray braids of his beard, eyes cast down as he speaks, "that a topic of this magnitude would warrant the presence of the King himself."_

_Thorin stiffens._

"_This is a preliminary negotiation only." Thráin responds. "There are other matters requiring the King's attention at present.")_

Thorin's brow pinches together. Very few occasions have brought him into the presence of the ambassador of the Iron Hills. The stately dwarf had always been distant but unerringly polite, words carefully chosen and placed, like a jeweler faceting the crown of a gem. But formalities had not even concluded before Turak had begun his subtle criticism, calling into question Thráin's fitness to oversee the meeting. Each remark had been like a hairline fracture in the stone of the heir's standing, hardly enough to warrant further inspection but all together weakening its foundation.

None had seemed to take notice. Not Thráin or the dwarves of the Emùlhekhulagùlab, not even the other dignitaries. Thorin alone had seemed to take offense and had been unable to voice his discontent.

The heir of the heir does not speak unless asked.

"Gasatafra... Gasatafra... _Oh_ – Birashagimi! Gasatafra..." Behind him a voice rises above the clamor of busy work. It's genial and sounds just on the edge of a warm chuckle as it draws steadily closer.

A white cloud of hair appears at Thorin's shoulder.

"You left in quite the hurry, lad. Something on your mind?"

Thorin glances down at the dwarf beside him and recognizes him instantly. Balin, son of Fundin, a noble of the Emùlhekhulagùlab and one of his father's advisers.

Thorin bows his head and does his best to look pleasant. They're cousins, however distant. "Agùlabâlûn Balin, you needn't have concerned yourself with me. I'm sure my father could use your council more than I."

"None of that, now." Balin says, lips twitching above his snowy beard. "Your nephews have stuck me to my seat with binding glue far too often for us to be holding to formalities." He winks one twinkling eye, taking any sting from his words. Balin sighs then, folding his hands in his ample sleeves. "And I'd offer your father my advise but, at the moment, he will not hear it."

Thorin comes to a sudden stop, shocked into stillness by Balin's candor as much as his words.

They've come to a promenade overlooking the causeways of the First Deep. Balin moves forward to stand at the balustrade, looking out over the multitude of dwarrows and 'dams going about the business of the day. Around them lanterneers scurry back and forth with casks of oil and stacks of thick pillared candles, polishing cloths hanging from their belts. Thorin is in the way, he knows, standing in the middle of an intersection.

Still, he hesitates to join the older dwarf at the rail.

_("The Iron Hills is honored that Erebor would turn to us for aid," Turak's remark is not addressed to Thráin, but rather to Nár, seated to the left of the king's vacant seat. The grizzled councilor flicks his eyes up and dips his head. "However, we cannot help but admit that we are perplexed," Turak's scribe nods fervently at the ambassador's words as he blots his notes, "Erebor's wealth is vast, far exceeding that of the Iron Hills... particularly given the decrease in trade." _

"_The settlement has been more productive than anticipated." Thráin answers. Thorin can see his father's frustration in the slant of his mouth and the curl of his hand on the table. _

"_The caravans have experienced delays, I've heard," Rhokim murmurs, as though to himself. Turak's brow furrows inwards, his expression briefly suspicious at the other ambassador's acquiescence. "Such a long way for them to travel, for something so simple as iron." _

"_By your leave, Emùlhekhizu," Balin speaks for the first time since the meeting began. At Thráin's nod he continues. "The King's concern is not funding or even resources. Rather, he seeks expertise in rough and mountainous terrain and the warriors who posses it."_

"_The Grey Mountains cannot spare them." Rhokim's answer is immediate and decisive.)_

Not for the first time Thorin wishes that Dis had their grandfather's permission to attend these meetings. His sister would know far better than he, who was supporting their King's obsession and who was merely going through the motions.

In his mind Thorin hears the creak of the chamber doors, footsteps drawing all attention from the table. He hears the weight of molded gold set to rest on flat stone, heavy as the great hammers of the forge.

Can he trust Balin?

Thorin is torn from his thoughts when, body acting on decades of martial training, he steps lightly to the side, avoiding what would have been a very messy collision with a young dwarrow carrying crates of ink. The lad stumbles over his feet, gapes at Thorin with wide eyes and squeaks out an apology. Unable to bow with the crates stacked in his arms, the lad drops an embarrassing curtsy and dashes off, head ducked down in his many knitted layers.

"Poor lad," Balin sighs. Thorin turns to see the old dwarf gazing off after the young dwarrow with a sympathetic smile. "Still running ink at his age, what a shame."

"He hardly looks older than Fili and Kili." Thorin remarks, though in truth the lad has more of a beard than either, scraggly though it may be.

"Oh, aye, I don't doubt it. But only the very youngest apprentices are made to run ink among the Bâhzundushkirthâlh." Balin shakes his head, half resigned and half puzzled. "It would be kinder to turn the lad to another profession, if he has so little potential."

"I had thought he was a scrivener's aid."

"No, he had a copper raven's feather clipped to his forelock." Balin remarks, giving Thorin a wry smile and a raised brow. "You ought to pay attention to these things, lad. Especially if we end up going through with this confounded campaign."

Relief washes over Thorin like the warming caress of firelight on a cold evening. He goes to stand beside Balin, resting his arms on the balustrade, and looks down into the descending cavern. Below them lanterns strengthened by mirrors send steady streams of light over the stairways and bridges of the Deeps.

"You are against this folly, then?"

"Aye, though I can't deny I long to see those greatest of halls..." Balin trails off, eyes gone misty, lost somewhere in his own imaginings. His gaze turns darker suddenly and he shivers, coming back to himself. "Still, I can't help feeling... uneasy about this whole venture. I've a sense of foreboding about the entire thing, it makes my whiskers ache."

Balin raises a hand to his pale beard, running his fingers through the stands.

Thorin chuckles. "You have no whiskers," he says and is immediately overcome with mortification. His cheeks burn as he begins to stammer an apology.

But Balin is laughing and the sound is just as warm and merry as the old dwarf's voice had led Thorin to believe.

"True, enough!" Balin says with good humor, scratching at his bare upper lip. He smiles at Thorin's continued embarrassment and pats his arm. "I am loyal to Erebor, my lad, and to the line of Durin – but in this I find my sympathies lay with the Grey Mountains."

_(Thráin raises his hand, motioning for silence. Rhokim falters, his arguments cutting off abruptly. _

"_We are aware of the difficulties you face." Thráin says, grimacing as he takes a sip of mulled ale long gone cold. _

"_Then you understand our reasoning-" Rhokim begins. _

_Gamul speaks over him, wizened lips twisted in distaste. "You would deny your King when he calls?" The ancient councilor asks, narrowing his eyes. _

"_The Lady of Ered Mithrin will deny King Thrór nothing that can be spared," Rhokim snaps. Beside him the dwarrowdam who serves as his scribe puts quill to parchment for the first time that Thorin has seen. The ambassador visibly calms himself. "However, her first concern and greatest duty are to the dwarves under her protection. We cannot spare any warriors for this campaign when we need every last one to hold our own borders."_

"_You have our sympathies, ambassador." Thráin says._

"_Forgive me, my lord, but we have no use for sympathy," Rhokim answers, "what we require is your aid.")_

Thorin sighs.

"Their situation is dire," he admits, rubbing his hand across his brow, "though it is partly of their own making."

"That's not entirely fair, lad." Balin says, the reprimand soft but there none the less.

"The Grey Mountains were lost to orcs and dragon-fire long ago," Thorin crosses his arms and stares out over the First Deep. On the main causeway three guards barrel through the crowd, tipping carts as they give chase to a dwarf with oddly pointed hair. Thorin shakes his head and snorts. "They should have come south with grandfather after Ikmurk's attack. How many lives would be saved but for their stubborn pride?"

"Can you honestly say your pride is not equal to theirs?" Balin asks, arching one bushy eyebrow. "If Erebor were to be lost to Ikmurk's wrath, or any other drake, wouldn't you fight to your dying breath to retake it?" He raises a hand, forestalling Thorin's reply. "You needn't answer, my prince, I can see it like a fire in you eyes. Understand, it isn't merely the Grey Mountains who stand to fall. The Cold-drakes are wingless but their cousins are not. In aiding our northern kin we forestall the ruin of our own halls."

"I do not like to think that those worms would come so far south."

"And yet, if the Grey Mountains fell, what would keep them? They've a lust for gold that far exceeds even the most covetous of dwarves."

_(The negotiations have regressed into a battle of words. The royal scrivener's frail hand races across parchment, scrambling to keep up. Around his small desk his assistants work at a furious pace, loading new quills with ink, pen knives sharpening those that have been cast aside. Rolls of parchment are unwound and smoothed flat only to be snatched up one after the other. A young apprentice groans and tugs at his braids in dismay as he finds the supply of blotting paper has nearly run out. It speaks to the heat of the ongoing dispute that none save for Thorin seem to hear the breach in etiquette. _

_The meeting chamber is configured so that the King's Seat is the focal point of the room and all but those who advise him are arranged so that their attention is drawn towards that one point. Everything radiates outwards from it and angles back again, hardly giving room for the eye to wander. Even so, when the great doors open every dwarrow in the room goes still and turns as though compelled. _

_The doorway appears larger than Thorin remembers, like a dark void drawing him in. At the center stands the king. _

_They all rise from their seats, hardwood chair legs scraping against polished stone. Thrór takes his time as he walks towards his seat. He does not speak and so none dare address him, not even Thráin. Even the scribes – generally regarded as particularly active furniture until needed – have stood at the king's entry._

_As Thrór reaches the head of the table he turns to regard the gathering. The lantern light from overhead brings attention to his crown, the ebony stone of the cresting ravens glowing dully. Gold glints and gleams from the circlet upon his head, down the clips accenting the careful angles of his beard, over the threads of his robes and the wide expanse of his belt, to every ring adorning his fingers. He is radiant with wealth and power, blazing like the fires of the Grand Forge.)_

"... even grandfather..." Thorin whispers, apprehension over the king's ever growing greed gnawing at his gut.

"I..." Balin sighs, expression grave and at a loss for words. Thorin turns to the old dwarf, looking him dead in the eye. The chill returns to his bones.

"What was in that box, Balin?"

_(From the king's shadow an attendant steps forward, unremarkable save for the item he holds. A small coffer wrought from gold, filigreed with shining strands of mithril so intricate Thorin's eyes ache to look at them, rests on slats of silver threaded through the base. As one the dwarves watch as it's lowered to rest on the flat of the table, the low noise of its feet meeting hard stone echos through the room like distant thunder. _

_The rest of the meeting passes in a golden daze, the resonance of the king's voice the only clarity to be had.)_

"Oh, lad. I think we both know the answer to that." Balin replies, shaking his head, his weary eyes meeting Thorin's gaze and not looking away. "Though neither of us are happy to think on it."

"Thorin! You orc-skinned, tree hugging, fibbing lout!"

The bellow fills the narrow hall behind them and bursts out over the promenade. Above them a lanterneer startles and tips in his harness, dropping a fresh candle with a curse and watches it fall down into the shadows with an expression of quiet and long suffering resentment. Thorin turns to see his Shomakhûn storming towards them, his warhammer slung across his shoulder and shaved head gleaming with sweat. The crowd of servants parts like a cresting wave in the path of Dwalin's wrath.

"Well, doesn't he sound put out."

Thorin sighs, rubbing his hand over his face. "I told him to wait for me outside the doors of the antechamber."

"Only you left through the servant's entrance." Balin tips his head and smiles up at him indulgently. "I'll just leave you two to talk it out then." Balin gives him one last pat on the arm and wanders off towards a small stairway.

"Traitor." Thorin grumbles after him. Balin only chuckles as he disappears from view.

* * *

Rhokim steps out onto a narrow bridge and shudders.

Erebor's vast cavernous halls are more unsettling than he had anticipated. Open air stretches out around him, shifting and brushing at his hair and beard in ways he doesn't expect. The great kingdom grows out of the walls in the same way that the cities of men grow out from the ground, carved from the stone and yet, not wholly a part of it. Even the supporting pillars (pillars, hah! What a meager word for such towering structures) are dotted with stairways and balconies, archways and windows. Though Rhokim knows they reach all the way down to the furthest Deeps, they remind him more of colossal stalactites than buttresses, however ornate the workmanship.

The iron nails in his boots make faint pinging sounds as he walks across the green granite. Though the distance is short Rhokim steps wearily. The greatest architects of the age are reputed to reside under the Lonely Mountain, it's just his luck that their genius seems to have come up short on the concept of rails.

"What kind of dim-witted urkhus builds a bridge without a railing, I ask you!" He grumbles, giving the offending bit of architecture a scathing glare as he exits onto a small enclosed balcony.

"It's an aesthetic choice," a haggard voice answers him. It comes from a figure leaning against the arch of a small viewing window cut into the stone. Shoulders hunched around a portable scribing tray, Bakla writes with small, efficient strokes. "They're very fond of crisp, clean lines here. Not to worry though," she adds, more sardonic than assuring, "the higher traffic areas have them."

"That's hardly encouraging," Rhokim mutters, coming to stand at the window. The old scribe has some odd contraption made from copper and crystals strapped to her head. She stares fixedly through it as she works.

"It'd be a small comfort should I fall to my death from a _lesser_ trafficked area. What then, hmm?"

"Then..." Bakla trails off, expression going slightly slack before she jots down a quick note and continues, "the Lavamâlh scrape your guts off the mining tracks and I send back home for a new ambassador." She makes the whole notion sound like a minor inconvenience.

"Done it before, have you?" Rhokim snarks.

Bakla makes a minute adjustment to her apparatus.

"...Aye."

Rhokim stares, decides discretion really is the better part of valor and leaves that disturbing tidbit well enough alone. He turns to face out the window. "What have you got that oversized jeweler's lens for anyway?"

"It's a viewing scope," she corrects, clearly unsurprised but no less dissatisfied with his ignorance. "I'm using it to listen in on young Prince Thorin's conversation."

Rhokim squints, gaze hunting along the far wall until he sees a figure that reminds him rather strongly of the youngest dwarf from Erebor's contingent. He's speaking with what must be a very large dwarf with a balding scalp. They look quite a long way off. He holds his fist out to measure them up and does a few quick calculations. "That gallery's a good two hundred feet away, how can you possibly hear them?"

"By looking at their mouths."

"Huh." He grunts. That makes about as much sense as anything the old 'dam has said since his arrival. "What are they saying then?"

"Nothing of note, it's mainly a litany of creative curses at the moment." Bakla shrugs, placing a blotting sheet over her notes and folding the wooden tray closed. She corks her ink and places each item in her bag with care. The quill gets inserted into the plaited coil of hair atop her head after a quick cleaning on the hem of her tunic. There are a fair few woven in already, giving her the appearance of a rather bedraggled hen. "I was merely entertaining myself while I waited."

"You were taking notes." He comments as the scribe dismantles her 'viewing scope' and tucks it delicately amid folds of crushed velvet. When she lowers the lid on the case it looks like nothing more than a battered old quill box.

"Words are my axe and my shield, ambassador. It would be a travesty to let such raw potential go to waste." With all her accoutrements stowed away Bakla levers herself up. She looks deceptively feeble beside his own bulk and that perception is only strengthened by her gait. Tottering and listing slightly as she goes, Rhokim follows close at her heels as the old scribe leads him down an interior stairway and out onto a, thankfully, much wider thoroughfare.

"I had wondered why you'd left so quickly." Rhokim hazards an inquiry as they make their way through the evening rush.

"Forgive me, ambassador." Bakla's smile is the very picture of apologetic chagrin. He finds it vaguely disturbing. "I found myself in need of some fresh air, and a little change of perspective."

"Fresh air I can sympathize with," Rhokim says, recalling the sudden, stifling weight of the negotiation's conclusion, "but I can't see how a new perspective would help. Our position is clear, whatever angle you examine it from." His mouth tugs downwards, grimacing. "Especially after..."

"Oh yes, especially after." Bakla agrees, nodding her head. "Do you know why all parties to a negotiation bring their own scribes, ambassador?"

Rhokim huffs in amusement as he answers. "So they have someone to curse at them in the margins when they say something doltish?"

"That's certainly a bonus," she replies, lips quirking, "but no, that's not it."

"It's likely because we're all loath to trust the host's official transcript." They pass under an archway and into a branching rotunda. Rhokim lets his shoulders drop, greatly comforted to be surrounded by solid stone once more. He allows the old scribe to choose their route, he doubts he'll ever feel truly confident navigating Erebor's many passages, however long his tenure becomes.

"The Iron Hills certainly think so, but that's because they're _stupid._" Bakla snorts, not one for mincing words. "It's because we're invisible. No one notices when our eyes linger too long or cares where our attention lies. It's easy to be observant when _you_ go unobserved."

"And what was there to observe?"

"The King's allure is unnatural," Bakla answers, voice low as they pass an armored patrol, "but not all are so easily taken in. There is room to maneuver yet, if we are mindful."

"You have a plan?"

"I have many plans," she remarks, gaze piercing as a sudden frost, "it simply remains to be seen which will come to fruition."

* * *

.

* * *

Gordonia Sackville reaches Bywater on the first Trewsday of Halimath.

Camellia is waiting for her where the High Crossing trail meets Bywater Road, with young Otho at her side. They wear dull colors and matching cuffs of black ribbon, very much like her own. Her sister opens her arms wide and Gordonia drops her pack, rushing to meet her embrace.

"No tears, you hear!" Camellia orders, voice high with forced cheer. "If you start then so will I and we can't be having with that. What would the neighbors think?"

"I'm just so grateful, Cammy," Gordonia sniffs, pulling back to wipe at her eyes. "I can't imagine living in the old smial now that Mama's gone too."

"Don't be silly dear," her sister assures, overlooking the use of her childhood nickname. "You're much too young to be on your own."

"I'm thirty five, you know," Gordonia pouts as they begin walking up the road towards her sister's home. Otho runs up ahead, too old to want to be seen with his mother and aunt, Gordonia's pack hanging from his shoulder. "I'm not _that_ young."

"Young enough." Camellia says firmly, wrapping an arm around Gordonia protectively. "And you can't be too careful these days, I've heard rumors from the North Farthing. The bounders say-"

Gordonia is all too happy to take the edge off her grief with what's sure to be some choice bits of gossip when their conversation is interrupted by her nephew's excited cry.

"Big Folk!" He shouts, pointing west. "There's a Big Folk on the road!"

"Otho, you come back here this instant!" His mother shouts as Gordonia races up to his side, raising her hand up to shade her eyes. "Gordonia, you pull him away from there, do you hear?"

"That's no Big Folk." Gordonia remarks, making a half-hearted attempt to push Otho back towards her sister. "He's not tall enough."

"He looks normal height because he's far away." Otho insists. He's only just entered his tweens, so of course he knows everything. "He's got hair on his face, that makes him a Big Folk!"

"He's hardly far at all." Gordonia rebuts. "And anyway, Big Folk women don't have hair on their faces, don't you know anything?"

Camellia stomps up behind them and grabs them each by the nape of the neck, steering them back down the hill and onto the road. They leave the lone figure far behind, Camellia not releasing them until they're well into Bywater, Otho batting at her hand until she relents.

"You utter ninnies!" She hisses, prodding them forward into a quick trot. "That was a _dwarf_. You're not to go near them, not either of you, do you understand?" She demands, herding them up the lane to the fancier smials, built far from Bywater Pool. They reach Camellia's tidy garden and have to stop to catch their breath, leaning against the fence just by the mailbox, _'The Sackville-Bagginses'_ painted in dainty script across its side.

"That's what I was trying to tell you about," Camellia pants, clutching a stitch in her side. "There's been word from the bounders, about dwarves crossing through the Shire going east."

"What could they possibly want in the Shire?" Gordonia asks, opening the gate and heading towards the smials inviting crimson door. Otho beats her to it, throwing it open and dropping her pack thoughtlessly in the entry. "Otho, you toad! There's delicate things in there!"

Camellia snatches her wrist before Gordonia can go running after him, pulling her back so that they stand face to face. She's taller than her sister now, Gordonia realizes and feels rather mature for it.

"You listen to me, Gordonia," Camellia says, blue eyes sharp as splintered ice. "We've had things peaceful and quiet since that lot came west by leaving well enough alone. I don't know what's possessed them to come south into the Farthings but we won't be getting mixed up in it, not like that Belladonna, understand?"

"That's really no way to talk about your sister-in-law..." Gordonia trails off at her sister's scathing look.

"Hear me! You're to keep Otho and the girls well clear of any outsiders, is that clear?"

"Yes, Cammy." Gordonia assures her sister and, with one last glance back towards the road, follows her inside.

The next few years are not so enjoyable as Gordonia had hoped them to be.

Living with her sister's family is comforting but beyond that there's nothing much else to be said for it. She spends her days helping in the garden and teaching her nieces to sew and knit. She makes a few friends among the local lasses and occasionally goes for tea or to pick flowers in the meadows. Her evenings are spent at home, even during the warmer months when there are dances a plenty. More and more dwarves have been crossing the Shire each year and Camellia gets all in a tizzy if the whole family isn't home by the time the sun touches the horizon.

One evening her sister makes an off-hand comment about how few suitors come to visit and Gordonia pegs her square in the ear with a biscuit. They don't speak for a fortnight after that but when Gordonia concedes an apology Camellia agrees that a few festive outings just might be acceptable.

Which is how, on a Sunday in the middle of spring, Gordonia finds herself lost in thought on her way home from a dance. Dreaming of sweet candied fruit and even sweeter stolen kisses, she hardly pays attention to the path. The ground dips suddenly and she loses her footing on the cool grass, sliding down a knoll to land right in front of two booted feet.

They're rather dusty, is her first thought. Her second thought is that she's spending far too time with her sister.

Her eyes travel up the line of his boots, up legs clothed in trousers of rough spun wool and over a heavy coat belted at the waist to the stranger's face, highlighted in the flicking light of his small campfire.

His eyes are green as forest moss and his thick hair is the color of rich loam. Though it's worn long and braided like a lass and his face is covered in course hair, Gordonia cannot help but to find him handsome.

The dwarf smiles down at her and offers his hand, large and layered in thick calluses, to help her stand. Gordonia's stomach flutters pleasantly as she takes it, being pulled upright with no effort at all. He offers her his seat (a large stone draped in his cloak) and his name (Hamad) with a bow and she thinks it may not be such a bad thing to get a little lost for the evening.

Camellia will be angry with her, she knows. But only if she finds out and Gordonia doesn't plan on telling.

* * *

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* * *

I had a lot of fun writing this chapter (after I scrapped my original idea of writing the entire negotiations from start to finish, what a pain that was!), though I worried a bit about conveying the political relationships without things being too explicit (which would have been dry and boring) or so vague as to be confusing. So I hope I struck a good balance, enough to get a good idea but also leave the reader with room to question and wonder... ;)

Next chapter: BILBO! WooHoo!

Translation Notes:

Words marked by a (*) were created by me using existing words from The Dwarrow Scholar's dictionary because no canon word existed that would suit my purpose.

Âfizu – the 11th month of the Dwarven calender. (the 10th would be around the second week of August)

Emùlhekhulagùlab* – the ruling council of Erebor (lit. Majesty's counsel)

Gasatafra – excuse me (lit. may I pass)

Birashagimi – pardon me/sorry (lit. I regret)

Agùlabâlûn – male council member

Emùlhekhizu – Your Majesty

Bâhzundushkirthâlh* – the organization of scribes and messengers responsible to sending and receiving messages by raven (lit. Raven Writers).

Shomakhûn – guardian who is male

Urkhus – goblin

Lavamâlh – cleaners, rather like janitors, garbage collectors and night-soil men all rolled up into one.

Trewsday – the Hobbit name for Tuesday

Halimath – the 9th month of the Hobbit calender, it begins towards the end of August.

Smial – Hobbit hole

Tween – the Hobbit equivalent of a teenager; a hobbit in their twenties.


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